


Rise Up

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Listen to Me [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Adoption Discussions, Anti-Immigrant Beliefs, Anxiety, Bad Parenting, Consensual Violence Kink, Depression, Drug Abuse, Dub-con (mentioned not shown), Ethnocentrism, Family Drama, Fencing, Found Families, HIV/AIDS, Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Non-con (mentioned not shown), Promises, Racism, Recovery, Unrequited Love, Violence, good parenting, hospital visits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8057398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: Final Part of "Listen to Me" -John made Alex Promise.  "Promise me," he'd said.  "Promise me that even if it's not a decision you agree with, even if it's not in your benefit, even if you want to argue it the other way. Promise me you will respect whatever choice I make. You won't ignore my choice. You won't pretend you don't know what my choice is. If I say no—the answer is no."Alex promised. It's a hard promise to keep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle (twoandahalfslytherins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandahalfslytherins/gifts).



> This is the final part of this series. You NEED to read the first two segments to understand. 
> 
> Each chapter is 5k and will be posted on a regular basis. 
> 
> Thank you all for your support with this series, and I hope you enjoy the ending. It took a long time to get there.

“How was school?”

John looks up immediately.  Grinning wide when he sees the man round the corner from the kitchen.  Something smells _fantastic_ inside, and Lafayette looks particularly delectable.  He’s got his hair tied back, beard neatly trimmed.  Clothes sitting just so.  John kicks off his shoes and drops his backpack to the ground.  Crossing the distance between them in seven strides.

He reaches up for Lafayette’s face and pulls it down.  Kissing him soundly even as he presses their bodies together.  Lafayette wastes no time and pulls him forward too.  Tangling his fingers in John’s hair.

 _Christ,_ it’s been only four hours, but John’s missed every second he’s spent apart from Lafayette.  Knows full well that’s not exactly a healthy feeling, but can’t quite manage to squash it completely.  Lafayette’s _his_ to miss, and John’s possessive enough to be displeased if there’s some form of separation.  No matter how necessary it might be.

With mid-terms well and truly behind them, John’s been dedicating himself to pulling his GPA around.  While he’d never been in _danger_ of failing, he certainly hadn’t been helping his cause.  A string of Cs could well become a string of Bs if he pushed himself harder this second half of term, and he’s got every intention of doing so.

After he’s done investigating Lafayette’s mouth for any changes.

John plunges his tongue between Lafayette lips.  Fights the man for control, desperate to push his tongue down.  To trace every inch of Lafayette’s mouth and call it his own.  He steps forward, and is pushed back in response.  Strong hands at his hips, hoisting him up.  He wraps his legs around Lafayette’s body instinctively.  Feels Lafayette’s grip shift so he can hold John more firmly.

Arms locking around Lafayette’s neck, he lets his boyfriend do whatever he wants.  Lets him walk John to the counter.  Settle him down and hold him in place.  Their kiss is never broken.  Lafayette just keeps pressing in tighter.  Grinning whenever John moves or changes position.

He pulls back eventually.  Before John’s finished plundering Lafayette’s, but within a reasonable amount of time…John _supposes._ He doesn’t stray far.  Choosing to rest his forehead against John’s and smile at him.  “How was your day, _lapin?”_

John loves that name.  Loves hearing it leave Lafayette’s perfect mouth.  Loves hearing its vibrations against his skin.  He smiles.  Noses Lafayette a little.  Trying to summon it back into existence one more time.  “Lapin…” Lafayette warns him.

All right all right.  He’ll play.  “It was good.” And it _had_ been.  He’d spoken to all of his teachers about his plan.  Where he could, he went over his past papers.  Asked them questions on how he could improve.  Where he needed to improve.  What he should do to get better.

He wrote down notes in careful dictation.  Fully prepared to revisit and replay the memories wherever he could.  Had them all neatly organized in his backpack.  Ready for review.  Pierre already offered to help him study if he needed it.  They have a call scheduled later on tonight, and John’s going to take him up on it.  Even if they don’t study, something John thinks would be rather difficult anyway considering the fact that Pierre won’t have access to any of the books that he’s reading, it’d be nice to talk to the man.

Lafayette grunts under his breath.  Murmurs something in French.  He slides his brow across John’s.  Lowers his lips to John’s throat.  Traces his teeth along his flesh.  John’s eyes flutter.  His fingers tighten around Lafayette’s body.

His back arcs even as he exhales slowly.  “Just good?” Lafayette asks.

“You’re really gonna make me te—” Lafayette bites down.  Not _hard_ , exactly, but enough to make John gasp.  Make him moan.  He wants to move.  Wants to press against Lafayette’s body.  Fight back and get conquered because he allows it.  Because it’s on his terms.

He tries wriggling a little, but the teeth at his throat just tighten.  A warning, one that makes his skin tingle with anticipation.  He leans his head farther.  Energy rising.  Need to move growing with each passing second.  Lafayette pulls back.  Dark eyes shining bright in the afternoon light.  He’s smiling.  Wetting his lips.

His thumb presses against the corner of John’s mouth.  Pressing down until he lets his jaw drop.  Lets the pad of Lafayette’s finger slide across the tops of his incisors.  “Just good?” Lafayette repeats.  He’s enjoying himself, John realizes suddenly.  Enjoying how he can take John apart.

They haven’t even left the kitchen.  Haven’t even done much besides some heavy petting, and yet here he is.  Heart pumping endorphins through him.  Hormones driving him mad.  He wants to be bent over the very counter he’s sitting on.  Wants a hand to hold him in place and refuse to let him up no matter how hard he struggles.

Wants, desperately, for the relief of Lafayette’s touch.  Wants the heat and the friction that comes with it.  He nods his head.  Taking Lafayette’s hand with him.  He closes his lips around it, draws it into his mouth.  Suckling on it.  Biting lightly.

Lafayette’s eyes darken.  His expression heated.  So much so that John’s certain he’ll burn.  He wants so badly to burn.

Light him on fire and send him away happy.  He sucks harder, and Lafayette leans in.  Pushes John down by his head.  Fingers tightening around John’s face as he keeps his thumb between John’s lips.  He’s guided backwards until he’s sprawling along the granite countertop.  His skull rests inches from the fruit basket.

His hair splays out around him like a halo.

Lafayette retracts his thumb.  Replaces it with his pointer and middle fingers instead.  John takes them eagerly.  Wraps his tongue around their length, sliding up and down.  Tasting the salt and garlic from where Lafayette had been cooking.  Chasing the last vestiges of olive oil just around the cuticles.  With the taste in his mouth, John’s suddenly aware of just how hungry he actually is.

He hasn’t eaten all day.  Hasn’t had a chance to, between running from class to class and speaking with professors.  His lunch break had been cut short, and he’d only managed to snag a few sips from a water fountain before hurrying to his next lesson.

Lafayette would tell him that he’d been foolish.  That if he wants to grow big and strong, he needs to eat something.  Lafayette, however, takes great pleasure in feeding John.  If he were Alex, he’d have teased the man already.  Told him that he had a kink that needed to be addressed.

But it’s not a kink.  It’s normal.  People eat at set times during the day, and Lafayette is a creature of habit.  He always eats in scheduled intervals, and therefore he’s horrified when John comes home and admits that he forgot to do just that.

Lafayette’s fingers, _tasty_ and sweet, keep sliding between John’s lips, and his traitorous stomach starts to growl.  It’s quiet initially.  John’s hyperaware of the sound, can feel his stomach gurgle as juices begin to churn.  But he doesn’t think Lafayette can hear it.

At least, not until Lafayette leans over him completely.  Pinning his body _perfectly,_ still pumping his fingers in and out of John’s salivating mouth.  Then his stomach gurgles again, very loud, and _decidedly_ not sexy.

“Are we hungry, lapin?” Lafayette asks teasingly, leaning down to kiss John’s cheek.  He pulls his fingers from John’s mouth.  Pulls him upright with a wide grin.

“Sorry,” John mumbles.  His body is still feeling too alive.  Too sensitive.  Every part of him yearns to be touched.  Is aching for the chance to feel Lafayette’s rough palms stroking his skin.  Kneading his muscles.  Marking him as claimed once more.

His boyfriend is impervious to any sense of judgment or disdain.  Such things merely slide away.  Entirely uncared for or noted.  Lafayette takes John by the hand and eases him off the counter.  He settles John into a seat at the table instead, before turning and walking to the oven.  “Tell me about your day,” he requests for what seems to be the fifth time in a row.

Clearly they’re not getting out of this, and John groans as he adjusts himself in his pants.  They’re not going to finish what they started, and that’s _terrible._ But at least they’ll eat something, which isn’t all that bad.

“Talmadge is gonna help me with my term paper.  Make sure I’m on track.  He said he’d take time on Wednesdays to help me figure shit out.”

Lafayette nods his head and pulls two plates from the oven.  It’s a chicken something.  Or a duck.  John can’t quite tell.  But it’s covered in an orange glaze, and John can’t help flicking his tongue out.  Licking his lips for a _far_ more innocent reason.   _Damn that looks good…_

“C’est canard l’orange,” Lafayette tells him brightly.  He does something else, then settles the plates before them.

Grinning like a maniac.  “Where the hell did you learn to cook like this?” John asks, picking up the fancy silverware set out on the table.  Lafayette rolls his eyes.

“Where do you think?”

“Not Pierre, he doesn’t cook.”

Lafayette looks marginally impressed that he knows that.  “My Maman taught me, actually.” Opening his wine cooler, he withdrew a fancy bottle that matched the rows of very expensive bottles right beside it.  He withdraws two glasses from the cabinet, and he settles each glass on the table.  Popping the cork and pouring.

John doesn’t particularly care much for wine.  It’s touch and go.  Sometimes it’s good.  Most of the time it’s just weird.  Sour and strange.  He supposes it goes well with some foods, but he prefers beer.

There’s nothing in the world that could compel him to tell Lafayette this, though.  Lafayette’s particular about his wine.  Has very specific tastes and opinions about it.  Usually has at least one glass a night.  Slowly sipping at it.  Holding it in his hand and looking every bit as stereotypical as he likes to pretend he’s not.

Tentatively reaching out, John picks up the glass by its stem.  Lifts it to his nose and swirls it around like he’s seen Lafayette do.  It earns him a snort.  A roll of the eyes.  “You have no idea what you’re doing,” Lafayette accuses.

Of course he doesn’t.  John does it anyway though, arching one brow daringly as he continues swirling and sniffing.  He takes a sip.  It’s not… _bad._ It’s actually better than he thought it’d be.  “It’s a bold wine,” he decides, earning a snorting gurgle from his boyfriend.  “You can taste the oak from the barrel and the fruity aroma.”

 _“Mon petit Lapin, mange ton canard.”_ He points at the duck with his fork, and John grins.  Takes a wholly unnecessary gulp from his wine and then sets it back on the table.

Cutting a large chunk from the breast, he takes a bite.  If the wine was _okay,_ then the duck was fucking amazing.  John stares down at his food.  A bit dumbfounded that this even came from their oven.  Not that he _should_ be surprised.  Lafayette’s been cooking for him since he first moved in.

But this is fancy, and it’s tasty too.  Lafayette’s looking at him with an expectant expression, and John can’t help himself.  “It’s a _bold_ duck,” he starts.  He gets kicked in the shin immediately.

“Behave,” he’s commanded, and he can’t help but giggle.

“When do I ever behave?” he asks.  John cuts another bit of duck away.  Swirls it about the sauce.  It’s really fantastic.  And this time, he actually _can_ taste the fruit.  The orange is a full and juicy flavor.  The duck is not even slightly dry.  It’s moist and truly appetizing.  Mixing with the potatoes and the vegetables very well.

The sun is starting to set outside.  Dipping low beneath the horizon.  It’s casting orange light through the room, and John tips backwards on his chair to flick the kitchen light on.  Eventually it’ll be too dark to see otherwise.  Lafayette watches him go.  Even lifts a foot up to rest on the edge of his seat.  Smiling faintly.  One brow raised.

They stay like that for a moment.  Lafayette teasingly pushing his foot forward.  Tipping him backwards so he’s just on the edge of falling.  John considers his position for a moment.  He doesn’t move.  Lets Lafayette control it.  Each breath in a testament to his faith Lafayette’s not going to push him too far.  “Shall you behave, _mon petit?”_

“For you?” John asks slowly.  It feels like he’ll do anything for Lafayette.  “Always.” Even if he knows that it won’t always be the case, even though he knows that there will be times that he can’t honestly admit that he can do that, he can still try.  He can still give it his best shot.

That’s all Lafayette’s ever wanted from him.  Especially _now._ Lafayette smiles at him.  Lets his chair drop back down to the floor.  They continue eating.  One bite after another.  “I talked to Mads today,” John admits quietly.  He’s not sure why he didn’t open with it.  Probably because Lafayette had distracted him so thoroughly when he’d first walked in the door, and the idea of discussing Madison truly hadn’t crossed his mind until then.

It’s not like it’s a secret.  His conversation with Madison had been something that Madison himself even mentioned Lafayette knew.  Sure enough, Lafayette nods his head slowly at John’s words.  Settling his fork down so he can listen to John while he speaks.  “How is Monsieur Madison?” Lafayette asks slowly.

“He’s…he’s all right.  He’s…he’s quit dealing.  You knew that right?” Lafayette nods.

“We’ve spoken about it on occasion.”

“He’s…he’s thinking about Jefferson, I guess.  About whether Jefferson’s actually his friend or whether he’s not?” Lafayette nods sagely.  Sips at his wine.  Waits patiently for John to continue.  “I never asked him to quit you know.”

“I know that.” John frowns.  Squints at his boyfriend.  Trying to see how he felt about that little revelation.  But Lafayette didn’t seem too concerned with it.  “I wanted _you_ safe, John.  I did not think much on your friend’s…employment.”

Huffing, John lifted one shoulder.  “You should’ve talked to Alex about that.  He’s been harping on Mads since he found out Mads dealt.”

It’d been one of his more uncomfortable moments with his friend.  Madison trying to not do anything to piss Alex of any more than he already was.  Alex pushing and pushing and pushing.  Promising he’ll do whatever he can to help Madison get out of ‘the life’.  John doubts Alex changed Madison’s mind, but he certainly was fully supportive once Madison made the choice to cease and desist.

He _had_ been happier lately too.  Which was always a good thing.  But… “Jefferson was his friend,” John murmurs.  “His friend, and he…treated him like shit afterwards.  So Madison’s been…unhappy.  Trying to figure out if it was worth it in the first place.  I don’t know.  I just…I’m mad?”

They were working on sharing their feelings.  Pierre encouraged him.  Tell someone how he feels.  It doesn’t matter if you don’t think they’ll care.  Just say it.  At least once a day.  And John likes telling Lafayette how he feels.  Likes it when Lafayette keeps his eyes on John.  Wholly invested in whatever John has to say.  “Mad at Madison?” Lafayette clarifies.

“Mad at Jefferson.  For pushing him back into dealing.  For making it a condition of their friendship.” Lafayette waits.  “Mads kept saying Jefferson was his best friend.  But…best friends listen when you say no…” John says softly.  It’s something he might not have said a few months ago.

Might not have believed when he’d been wrapped in his own form of hell.  But he and Alex have been working every God Damn day to set things right, and so far? It’s been worth every second of it.  His friendship with Alex felt like it was stronger than it’d ever been before.  It feels right.  It feels _good._

Lafayette smiles at him.  “And what did Monsieur Madison say when you told him this?”

For a while, Madison hadn’t said anything.  Just looked at John.  Watching as John sipped on his latte.  Chewed on stale cookies in the bustling little café they kept frequenting.  It hadn’t been good.  Not nearly enough sugar.  Barely any vanilla extract either.  (With Alex as his best friend, he’d been spoiled with good baking over the years).

But he ate the cookies anyway, waiting as Madison contemplated his answer.  Eager to do something with his hands.  “He said his answer was ‘no.’” And John made sure it really was a ‘no.’ Not just something he was saying because John wanted that to be the answer.

“I told him I’d kick anyone’s ass who tried to convince him otherwise too,” John admits.

It earns him another fond smile.  Another shake of Lafayette’s head.  Licking his lips, John’s finishes up his plate.  Stares idly at his wine.  He shrugs a shoulder up at half an angle.  Tilting his head and announcing “Your turn.  Tell me about _your_ day.”

If John recalls correctly, Lafayette hadn’t had any classes today.  And if he admits to spending the day cooking a meal his mother for no reason whatsoever, John’s going to start to get concerned.  Lafayette hates his mother.

But his boyfriend is nonplussed by the question.  He just sits there and eats his dinner.  Taking small bites and chewing delicately.  “I didn’t do anything of interest,” Lafayette admits.  “I…spoke with my parents.” Hence the meal no doubt.  But Lafayette doesn’t like to talk about them.  Is often unruly if he gets started.

Pierre made it clear that _he_ was tired of hearing Lafayette complain about his parents.  Even went on to say that Lafayette’s opinions on his parents were some of the most difficult ones to manage or mitigate.  John has no idea what land mine he’d be walking into, and he’s not entirely sure he’s ready for it whatever it is.

Lafayette takes a sip of his wine.  He drinks it slowly.  Carefully.  Draws in a slow mouthful.  Holds it against his tongue, then swallows.  “We arrange calls frequently.  So they know where I am.  How I am.  When Pierre left…I had promised to make an effort to improve.”

“How’d it go?” John asks gently.

“How is your meal?” Lafayette asks in return.

It seems as natural a transition as any.  “It’s great.  It’s a great recipe.” Lafayette nods.  Takes another bite.

John glances down at his empty plate.  Moves his eyes from his dishes, to his hand, to his wrist.  The leather cuff that Lafayette bought him has been sitting there since he’d first put it on.  He only takes it off when he showers.  Even then, he willfully admits to feeling awkward and naked without it.  Uncomfortable and bizarrely isolated.  It’s been only a few weeks, but the sensation feels more grounding than anything he’s ever worn before.

It’s the one thing in his life that makes him feel connected.  Tethered to a reality that means something more than just him.  He wonders idly if this Is why people get married.  Put on a wedding band and know that someone out there is waiting for you.  Ready to be with you.  Ready to support you no matter what.

He wouldn’t trade his cuff for a ring any day.  Would rather have nothing at all on his ring finger all things considered.  But the cuff means more to him than he can say.  And he knows that Lafayette at the very least has a similar feeling toward it.

Though Lafayette only wears _his_ cuff when they’re sleeping, John could honestly say that Lafayette’s never seemed more calm than when he’s wearing his cuff.  When they’ve got that one chain attaching their wrists .  Keeping them solid and secure.

John holds out his hand.  He waits for Lafayette to acknowledge it.  Waits for him to reach out.  Wrap his fingers around John’s palm.  He holds it lightly.  Slowly lifting it up in the air and then cupping it between both hands.  Lafayette kisses John’s fingers.  Lets his own fingers slide around the edges of the cuff.  Tracing the belt buckle.  The excess leather.  The wrap as it twines about John’s wrist.  Stitching and all.

“You do not have to wear this during the day should you not wish to,” Lafayette reminds him.  

“You don’t have to take yours off if you do not wish to,” John mimics back.  Lafayette smiles at him.  Faint and assessing.  “I like it.”

“I’m glad,” Lafayette tells him.

“Do something with it?” John asks, and Lafayette’s lips spread in a smile.  He slides from his chair.  Takes John by the hand and leads him up the stairs.  They walk up slowly.  Night finally settling in.

It’s still far too early to go to bed, but their sleep schedules have been strange lately.  John’s been able to actually get rest when he lays down, and now that he’s reclaimed that ability, he’s not capable of thinking of anything else.

The moment Lafayette gives him the direction, he goes.  Pleased beyond measure that everything is in control.  Everything is safe.  He’s safe.

They go into their bedroom, and Lafayette plucks his own cuff from the bedside table.  He ties it into place, then finds the tether that they only use at night.  Reclaiming John’s arm, he ties John’s cuff to his own.  Stroking the stitching the whole time.

“Why don’t you wear yours outside?” John asks quietly.  He’s wondered about it for ages.  The cuffs are nice.  Functional.  Practical even.  They match almost anything in their collective wardrobes, and Lafayette chose designs that were fashionable to say the least.

But Lafayette only wears his here.

Lifting John’s wrist up, he kisses it.  “I have no interest in sharing this part of my life with the Kitty Livingstons of the world, my dear Laurens.” It’s a sensible comment that makes John laugh.  Shake his head fondly.   _Okay.  Fair point._ “People ask questions.  They wonder things that should not be theirs to wonder.  You are _mine_ ,” he tells John firmly, squeezing the cuff around John’s wrist.  “I see this and _know_ you are mine.  And I do not wish to share that with anyone else.”

For a moment, John thinks he’s going to ask John to not wear his cuff anymore.  To leave it in the bedroom with Lafayette’s.  “I like seeing my mark on you,” Lafayette tells him instead.  Kissing John’s wrist before pulling him closer.

Trading John’s wrist for his lips.  John’s stomach is too full for anything rough.  He’ll tap out if it gets too much, but for right now, this is nice.  And with their wrists attached already, John doubts Lafayette has rough in mind.  He’s in a peculiar kind of mood.  Making dinner and treating him nice and gently.

John’s tempted to call him out on it.  Tempted to poke fun or make a comment.  But instead, he lets Lafayette get away with it.  Lets him hug and coddle and treat him like a precious thing.  A favorite toy.  Like something worth being treated gently.

Closing his eyes, John gives into the sensation he’d wanted to collapse under earlier.  Gives into the perfect trails of Lafayette’s hands on his body.  The way his shirt’s removed, cuff temporarily unhooked then replaced as Lafayette remembers the sleeve.  They’re still working out the order of operations, but a part of the sloppiness makes John smile.  Lafayette’s eager.  Hopeful.

It feels nice to be loved.

Nice to be worshipped.

“Have I told you how proud I am of you today, Lapin?” Lafayette whispers in John’s ear.  He hasn’t.  John can’t work out exactly what he’s done to make Lafayette proud either.  Lafayette lays him down on the bed.  Covers his body with his own.  Kisses John from ear to jaw.  Gentle and sweet.  Moist and wonderful.

Knowing Lafayette expects a reply, John grunts awkwardly.  Trying to come up with the right words and utterly failing.  “Such a good boy,” Lafayette continues to whisper.  He rocks his hips down into John’s.  Undulates beautifully.  Rubbing their bodies together as he trails his fingers around John’s face.  His shoulders.  Down his arm to the leather around his wrist.  “So proud of you.”

Pierre had said that too.  Earlier today, before John left for school, Pierre had texted Lafayette’s phone.  Asked him to show the message to John.   _I’m proud of you_ , Pierre had written.  Thumbs up emoji just next to the words.  John scrolled through the messages on the phone.  Tilting his head as he caught sight of pictures of he and Alex laughing at the same joke.  Pictures of him looking at Lafayette, still beaming so bright.  Happy and as close to carefree as someone like John is capable of being at any given moment.

“Why?” John asks curiously.

“Because I am,” Lafayette replies.  “Can I not tell you that?” John shrugs awkwardly.  “I’m proud of you,” Lafayette repeats.

“Promise?” His voice sounds like it’s disconnected from his mouth.  A valiant army desperately trying to rally out a trumpet call when the sun has set and night has fallen.  The war has ended, and it is the last sign of resistance.  The last spokesperson for the rebellion.  John’s conceding defeat to a battle he’s not sure he’s aware he was fighting.

Lafayette nuzzles him anyway.  Can’t seem to stop himself.  And John lets him.  Lets him wriggle in closer.  Lets him kiss and pet.  Each action making John’s body feel heavy and sedate.  Between the dinner, the wine, and Lafayette, John’s certain he’s going to be falling asleep.  It’s barely even six o’clock, but he’s exhausted.

The day’s long events start spiraling through his mind.  Chatting with Pierre, talking to Alex, going to class, fighting with his teachers to make sure that he proved he wanted to be here.  Proving his commitment to doing better.  His chat with Madison…

Everything comes sliding to a head, and John’s suddenly perfectly aware of just how much today’s drained him.  Just how much he wishes he could just relax.  Settle down.  Close his eyes and slip off.  He’s been fed.  He’s reasonably clean.  And God…Lafayette’s settling him so nice and pretty.

“You’re my good boy,” Lafayette promises.  Kissing John’s hair.  It feels so nice.  So calming.  So sweet.  “And you’re never going to let me down.”

They’ve already proven that if John did something Lafayette didn’t agree with, he would help John get through whatever new disaster he may have brought forth.  And John truly can’t make any decisions that Lafayette would personally disagree with as much.

Even if John had chosen not to mend his relationship with Alex...well.  Lafayette made it clear that it was _his_ choice.  That whatever his decision would be, Lafayette would adhere to it.  Would follow it.  Would support him and not let him doubt himself.

Every day since, he’s been there.  Applauding John’s decisions and providing a basis for understanding for each one John choses as they move forward.  “Te amo” John breathes out.  He doesn’t know why he says it.  Doesn’t really know whether it’s entirely appropriate.  Nor even why he said it in _Spanish_ of all things.

He’s been speaking Spanish more lately, admittedly.  Alex has been talking to him in it from time to time.  And it’s nice to use it.  But…he doesn’t usually use it on Lafayette.  Only when they’re playful and teasing.  Complaining about language barriers of their own design.

Leaning up, he cups Lafayette’s face.  Kisses him and rolls a little.  Pushing him onto his back and twisting so they could lay together.  Energy drained now that the day’s finally over.  “Say it again?” Lafayette requests.  Looking John in the eye.

“Te amo...” John yawns wide.  Frowning, when he realizes that something’s missing.  Something that Lafayette should have said at least forty-five seconds ago.  Smiling, he pokes Lafayette in the side.  “S’yer turn…” John whines.  Batting his eyes at Lafayette and sulking just a little.  It earns him a smile.  John can almost hear him complaining.  Knows exactly what Lafayette’s thinking, even in French.

_Excusez-moi, pardon.  Attention, s’il te plait?_

“Je t’aime.  Je t’aime, John Laurens.”

There are countless feelings that John relishes.  There are endless sensations that he personally finds to be the greatest of all sensations to be felt.  The feeling of Lafayette’s lips as they quirk against his skin? The slide of his expression as it morphs into something pleasant and charming?

Ranks as one of the greatest delights he as a human being can ever experience.

Lafayette reaches for John’s body.  His touch is everywhere.  All encompassing.  As they writhe together.  Trading kisses.  Exchanging gentle nips.  They take their time.  They’re in no rush.  They have all night to reacquaint themselves with their bodies.  Bodies that had only been separated for a few hours at best, but still in desperate need of reunion.

Lafayette worships John’s body.  He doesn’t leave one speck of skin unkissed.  One small limb unmassaged.  He treats John like he is an idol lying prone upon an alter.  And in return, John breaths deep.  Relishes in the scent of spices that Lafayette had been cooking with, but hasn’t quite managed to divest himself of.

John feels pleasure rise within him.  He feels himself drift up towards a crescendo.  He feels Lafayette rocking forward.  Onto him.  Into him.  The world is perfect and serene.  Coming together, they exhale in perfect unison.  And when they’re done, it was well worth the wait.

Lafayette unhooks them again, just long enough to get something to clean up with.  But then he’s back.  Curling around John’s body and petting John’s hair until he starts to drift.  They start to fall.  Comforted with the knowledge that they’re both safe.

For this solitary moment in time… they’re both at peace.


	2. Chapter 2

Lafayette wakes to the sound of his phone buzzing.  It’s an insistent noise, and he grumbles blearily.  Rolling over to swat at it.  Dragging John with him.  John wakes briefly.  Just enough to flop over into a more comfortable position.  Pulling at their wrists until they’re both laying around each other comfortably.

Answering it with a weary _“Quelle?”_ he hears a pause, and then.

“Rude, Gil.  Very rude.” Oh.

Pierre.  They were supposed to call him tonight weren’t they?

Rubbing at his eyes, Lafayette glanced towards the window.  Make that last night.  The sun had started to rise and his clock read five am.  His alarm would be going off soon for them to get going on their morning run.  Sighing, he shifted and rose.  Yawning into the back of his hand and dragging John’s wrist about like a favorite blanket.

John whined unhappily.  Finally rousing himself from his sleep to blink at Lafayette.  John’s knees slowly folded underneath him, and he knelt upright.  Yawning badly.  Rubbing his eyes.   _“Un moment,”_ Lafayette grunts into the phone.  Setting it to the side he reached for their wrists.  Unlatching the tether and letting it fall free.  Trying to ignore the somewhat crestfallen expression John gave him in return.

 _“Il est Pierre_ ,” Lafayette tells John softly.  Kissing John’s lips and motioning toward the bed.  Starts to tell him he should get some more rest while he could, but is interrupted.

“ _En anglois, Gilbert,”_ John beseeches.  It’s about all the French he knows.  Though he does surprise Lafayette by calling him, _“Marmotte.”_ It’s one of the ones they went over at the zoo.  Lafayette had told him it was the equivalent of calling someone a sleepyhead.  Had even proceeded to call John it a few times when he had trouble waking up in the morning.

Lafayette has no idea what he’s going to do with the man when he actually becomes fluent in French.  Probably need to learn a new language to tease him in.  Lest he get teased back.

Sliding away from the bed, Lafayette reclaims his cellphone and carefully reverts back to John’s preferred English.  “Stay in bed,” he repeats.  “Do you want to run today?”

“Yeah…yeah…I’ll get up.” John doesn’t sound particularly convinced, but Lafayette lets him get away with it.  Holding the phone to his ear.

“Sorry, we fell asleep.”

Pierre laughs a little, “Is that what kids are calling it these days?”

Two can play at this game, and Lafayette knows his godfather won’t keep it up for long.  “Here I thought you preferred subtlety.”

“Honestly with you I cannot expect much difference.” Lafayette rolled his eyes and descended the stairs to the kitchen.

They usually didn’t eat before they left.  But they packed water bottles and kept fruit in the car for their return.  He listened as John started stumbling about upstairs.  Something drops and he hears a muffled curse.  Footsteps travel to and fro.  Cleaning up whatever mess had been made.

Lafayette dedicates himself to packing their things.  Pinching the phone to his ear as he worked.  “You said you were coming back to the United States soon?” he asks slowly.

“Yes, likely after the end of the school year.  May 16, I believe.” It’s not too far out all things considered.  And time feels like it’s condensing.  Days collapsing into each other.  “Your parents are busy with the latest product going out, and I’m going to have to supervise.  They want me checking over the patent documentation.”

“Don’t they have a team for that?” At least Lafayette _thought_ they did.

He gets a hum in response.  “A team of very competent, very trustworthy, lawyers.  Yes.” He says it with about as much disdain as is possible to keep contained within the human body.

“You don’t trust anybody do you?” Lafayette asks.   _Where the hell are the water bottles?_ He opens up a few cupboards.  Searching where he thought he’d last put them.  All he sees are glasses and plates.  Scowling, he opens the fridge.

Nothing.

There has to be some somewhere.  He opens the dishwasher.  Nothing.  He checks under the sink.  Nothing.  Turning on his heel, he’s about to shout up to John when he sees a glimmer of plastic out of the corner of his eye.

Both Nalgenes are on the counter.  Next to John’s keys.   _How many times have I told him…_

Never mind.

It’s not important.  Snatching the bottles, he returns to the sink and starts filling them up.  As he works, Pierre talks a little bit about the current product they’re sending out.  It’s boring.  Nothing Lafayette particularly cares for.  Just nonsense noise really.  Background fluff.

Lafayette can hear John starting to get dressed.  “How’s my other favorite boy?” Pierre eventually asks.

“Hercules?” Lafayette asks, just to be clear.

“ _Ton_ _amour,_ ” Pierre clarifies.

It’s strange, hearing Pierre like anybody as much as he clearly likes John.  But they’d gotten on well together while he’d been here.  They’d spent a good deal of time in each other’s company, and Lafayette can’t deny that the fondness is mutual.

Even with Hercules there’d been a familial separation of sorts.  No doubt Pierre loved Hercules as well, but as one loved a friend.   _Il aime beaucoup Hercules, mais il adore John._ Lafayette had no idea why.

He finishes scrubbing down the first Nalgene and moves on to the second.  “John’s doing well.  He wanted to speak with you.  Misses you, I think.” Misses his guidance.  His patronage.  There’s a kind of desperation in John when it comes to Pierre.  A look of surprise and wonder.

Is this what a father should be like?

Is this what love feels like?

Did you grow up with this?

Will he always be here?

The answer is ‘yes’ to all of the above.  And if there is one thing that Lafayette is proud to do, it’s to share Pierre with John if it makes them both happy in any way.  So long as John continues to heal.  Continues to do better every day.  Continues to follow the advice Pierre offers with such depth and emotion.  Tempered from years of experience.  Turned into solid steel.  A sword ready to fight for John and defend John in anything he needs assistance with.

“Why _do_ you care so much?” Lafayette asks curiously.

“Because I choose to,” Pierre replies without missing a beat.  “Just as I choose to care for you, love.”

Fair enough.

He finishes the water bottles just as John comes down the stairs.  He’s dressed in his running clothes.  Bouncing a little.  And he looks at Lafayette hopefully.  It’s clear what he wants, so Lafayette gives Pierre a brief goodbye, before handing the phone over.  John all but leaps at it.  Grinning widely as he carefully sounds out _“Bonjour, Pierre, ça va?”_

Lafayette rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, and heads upstairs to change himself.  He places a hand on the screen of his bedroom window.  Feeling the cool air.  It’s perfect weather to go running in.  Nice and brisk, but not too cold as to cause cramping.  Just the right temperature that even when they get going they’ll still be cool.

Changing into his clothes, he pats a hand under the bed for his running shoes.  Finds them eventually and tugs them on his feet.  Does up the laces as he hears John ascend the stairs.  He’s finished his call, but he’s smiling brightly.  “That was fast,” Lafayette comments.

“Yeah well, I told him we were getting ready to head out and we’re gonna talk later.”

That seems a little extreme all things considered.  He tilts his head at John.  Reminding him, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” John defends.  Fair enough.  Lafayette won’t push.  “You ready to go old man?” Well.  He won’t push _that._ John’s teasing however, needed to learn its place.

“Shall we do ten miles then instead of eight?” he asks breezily.  They usually do five.  Eight would be a burn even for him.  Ten would be excessive.  But John grins confidently and takes him up on the challenge.

Ridiculous child.

“Meet you at the top of the hill!” John tells him.  He races down the stairs, and Lafayette’s hot on his heels.

***

School days slip by.  Weeks dropping faster and faster.  John and Pierre talk at least twice a week, going over his course work and his intentions for the end of the year.  Lafayette helps John study.  Helps him catch up.

He’s far better at science than Lafayette ever hoped to be, and he keeps an almost encyclopedic reference about the animals and organisms he’s researching.  Pulls out biology facts with the same ease as Lafayette speaks French.  It’s impressive if not a touch unbelievable.

But he struggles on the core concepts in his Critical Thinking class and he loathes his history classes.  So they study.  They get through one week then the next.  Lafayette waves goodbye to him in the mornings and watches as he and Alex scurry off together.

To be completely honest, Lafayette’s not sure what to do now that things seem to have calmed down.  They’ve spent so much time panicking and worrying about the next great catastrophe that now that there’s nothing immediately pressing…he’s at a loss.

"You're doing a damn good Chicken Little impression," Hercules informs him over lunch.  Considering the fact that Hercules had been the most ardent supporter for John going to rehab or at the very least, getting _professional help,_ Lafayette's surprised he hasn't been given another lecture substantiating that.  Or at least, another lecture on how the end is nigh he should be prepared for everything to go to hell, he didn’t do it right.  Again.

Granted, Hercules _had_ calmed down in regards to rehab since he and Pierre spent some time together.  His friend hadn’t brought it up in nearly two months.  And on the rare occasions that John and Hercules were together, Hercules had tactfully steered clear of any similar topics.  It's been...very polite of him.  Lafayette has no idea what Pierre said to him, but he’s endlessly grateful that he had.  Lafayette truly had no desire to keep fighting his friend over it.

Sighing, Lafayette redirects his attention to his best friend.  Tries analyzing what he said.  He hadn’t _really_ been paying attention, but at least this time he can blame a culture clash.  He has no idea which fable Hercules was mentioning.  "Chicken Little…” he starts, drawing out the words as his mind races for answers.  “Is that the one with the eggs? Or the pie?"

Hercules is not impressed.  "That's the one where the chicken keeps saying the sky is falling."

"Why would the sky be falling?" The story doesn't even make sense.  It's a non-starter from the get go.

" _That's the point._ " It's not a good one.  "Look.  You keep waiting for shit to go down, but that doesn't mean shits actually falling from the sky." Hercules pauses.  "Or something like that." He seems prepared to start saying more, but cuts himself off as Peggy Schuyler approaches the table.  The young woman throws her bag next to her chair and flops into place.

Burrowing her head into her arms, she laments, "Is this semester almost over yet?"

Chuckling at her, Lafayette reaches out a hand and pats her curly head.  "Almost _ma petite._ You only have another month and a half to go!"

She groans even louder at the proclamation.  Sighing miserably as she readjusts.  Chin resting on her forearms.  Tilting so she can look at both Lafayette and Mulligan at the same time.  "You know, it's _your_ boyfriend who causes all the trouble."

That sounds about right.  Lafayette has no idea what she's talking about, but the news doesn’t surprise him.  Especially now that John and Alex have decided that the best way to show their appreciation for each other is to spend as much time together as possible.

Making up for lost time.  Reminiscing about the past.  Lafayette’s heard numerous stories over the past few days.  Each more entertaining than the last.  When Alex is over at night, John gleefully divulges all the details about fights that he’s gotten into with Alex.  And by _with Alex,_ he means fights that they both joined forces in against some great evil.  And as John spills all of these details, Alex is at his side seamlessly talking over him in vain attempts to convince Lafayette that _John_ started half of them.

Lafayette has yet to actually believe Alex.  From what he knows about both men, Alex is an instigator, and John's his loyal companion.  Always one step behind and both fists raised.  Besides, Lafayette cannot fathom how _John_ could have possibly started a fight with every member of their high school band when it was _Alex_ who had been determined to sleep with each and every one of them just for fun.  Men and women included.

Alex had squawked that he hadn’t thrown the first punch, but John had cut in that considering twenty kids were all fighting _each other_ over Alex’s apparent infidelity, that wasn’t exactly the point of the story.

“They do have a remarkable way of finding trouble,” Lafayette agrees.  Much to Hercules amusement and Peggy’s endless dismay.  “Are they having fun?”

Peggy makes another whining sound and rubs at her eyes.  Hercules slid his cup of chocolate milk toward her.  “Do we even _want_ to know what he did now?”

"He and _your_ favorite boarder keep terrorizing the rec-room.  I didn't even know you could _play_ foosball that aggressively.  But they damn near broke a window yesterday, and today, they decided to try _ping pong_ using golf balls."

 _It's probably rude to laugh,_ Lafayette considers.   _She probably won't appreciate it._

He laughs anyway.  Can't help it really.  He's got a perfect image in his mind of Alex and John on opposite ends of one of those long tables in the dorm.  Tossing a ball at each other and making up absurd rules to justify exactly how they were playing it.

"It's been raining a lot these past few days, they're probably just a little pent up," Hercules soothes.  He reaches out and offers Peggy a back rub.  She accepts it, even while she's scoffing loud enough to be heard across campus.  Sipping at Hercules’ chocolate milk and pouting like a child.

" _A little?_ They need to be put on a hamster wheel and told to run until they drop."

"Shall I take care of that for you?" Lafayette asks candidly.  "I'm certain I can find some way to...calm them down." They haven’t spoken about it yet, but Lafayette’s fully aware that John and Alex slept together in the past.  He wouldn’t even be opposed if they wanted to continue sleeping with each other now.  Has no intentions of breaking their bond in anyway.  But it would be… _delightful_ to take part.  Alex is a gorgeous man after all.  And he and John would look gorgeous side by side.

Hercules kicks his shin, _hard._

Peggy does a double take before she starts laughing.  Grinning toothily, and batting her eyes.  "Oh _really_ ," she drawls.  "You're going to _take care_ of them? Hmm?"

"I'm a man of many talents, Mademoiselle Schuyler,” Lafayette replies.  Batting his eyes right back and licking his lips for good measure.

This time, even Hercules can't stop himself from laughing.  Granted, Lafayette doesn't think it's necessary to carry on as long as they do.  But at least they seem amused.  "In any case," Peggy says, carefully stretching out her back once Hercules is done with her.  "Do let John know that he missed his last check in, _again,_ and that if he keeps it up I'm going to have to file a report."

"He's been doing very well," Lafayette promises on John's behalf.

"Not how it works, unfortunately.  I need to ask him directly.  And it's a whole process.  So if you could _take care_ of that as well, I'd appreciate it."

"I'll do my best," he promises.

"Also, is there something going on with his phone? I did text and leave a few messages to remind him prior.  But I didn’t even get a read receipt back, let alone an actual reply."

"His phone's out of service, I doubt he'll be getting a new one.  Next time call me."

Peggy raises a brow, “Plan too expensive?”

He shakes his head.  “No, he’s detaching from technology.” It’s as close to the truth as he’s going to get with her.  She doesn’t need to understand _why_ John doesn’t have a phone.  Just that he doesn’t.  She doesn’t seem too concerned with it.  Nods her head and tells him that she wishes she had that kind of dedication.  She’d be lost without her iPhone.  He smiles politely and lets it lie.

“You guys getting tested today?” she asks next.

There’s something about that that Lafayette should have known.  Words prickle on the back of his brain.  They sound familiar…but he can’t quite place it.  “Tested?” he asks, hoping the clarification would help.  

“Yeah, at the STD event?” Lafayette winces.  Oops.  He tries to stifle it, but it’s too late.  Hercules saw it, and he’s not impressed.

“ _Seriously, Gil?”_ his friend hisses.  “I asked you about that before break!”

He knows.  He does.  It’s just.  Things have been busy.  Very busy.  And it’s not like they had noticed any signs or symptoms.  It’s on the very tip of his tongue to say just that, but something must have shown on his face because Peggy immediately flies the banner in Hercules’s cause.  “Many STDs are asymptomatic.”

Yes.  He knows that.  Damn.  Grimacing, he checks his watch.  Starts doing mental scheduling adjustments to see if his and John’s schedules match up anywhere.  They do.  They have an hour between John’s History class and John’s afternoon lab.  But he’ll need to go now if he has any intentions of catching him.

“I’ll go find John and we’ll go together, _oui?”_ He slides out from the table and grabs his bag.  Hercules barks that he’d _better_ go or there were going to be consequences, and Lafayette waves him off.   _“A plus tard,”_ he says miserably.

The dining hall is on the opposite end of campus from John’s history class, so he needs to jog in order to get there in time.  But he makes it.  Catches sight of Alex and Aaron loitering by the door.  Alex chattering away happily as Aaron looks down at him.  Aaron seems to have a look bemused amazement permanently affixed on his face every time Lafayette sees the two together.  As though he has no idea how he ended up with Alex as a fixture in his life, but he’s unbelievably grateful that he has.

Alex grins and waves when he sees Lafayette, happily jumping up and wrapping his arms around Lafayette’s neck.  Greeting Lafayette with an effusive, “I didn’t think we’d see you today!”

Aaron is far more subdued in his salutations.  Smiling politely and nodding his head.  “It’s good to see you again, Lafayette.”

“Same.  Are we doing well?” Lafayette asks in return, gently prying Alex off of him.  

“Can’t complain.  The weather is nice.” It is.  Still cloudy and threatening rain again, but it’s not as bad as it has been the last few days.  It’s also the kind of mindless conversation Aaron seems to excel at.  Lafayette’s grateful for it, because he truly has no idea what to say to the man.

Thankfully, Alex saves them from having to bother.  He asks what Lafayette’s doing there, and then proceeds to bounce up and down excitedly at the idea that they were going to go get tested at the student center.  He immediately turns and asks Aaron if he wants to do it too.

If possible, Aaron looks a touch uncomfortable by the question, but he agrees it’s probably for the best all things considered.  The answer makes Alex incandescent with delight.  He claps his hands excitedly and Aaron tells them that he knows the woman in charge.  It’s Peggy’s sister, apparently, and she’s a very nice lady.

The doors to the history building open and John comes out behind a stream of students excited for their classes to be over.  He spots Lafayette immediately.  Tilting his head as he draws near.  Lafayette wastes no time in sliding his fingers around John’s hand, trailing one up high enough to nudge at John’s cuff, and pulling his boyfriend closer.  He kisses him.  Possessive and demanding.  John kisses right back.  Eyes closed and head tilted up for better access.

Kitty Livingston stomps by, scoffing and unimpressed.  Tells them to get a room.  John pulls back and snaps, “Get fucked,” at her.  It’s not particularly charming.

“Behave,” Lafayette tells him.

“What, you gonna punish me if I don’t?”

It’s a bold challenge to make in public.  Especially with Alex and Aaron clearly watching their exchange, but Lafayette is immune to embarrassment.  Has no trouble grinning at John and telling him “Of course, _mon amour._ And you’ll thank me so nice and sweet when we’re done.”

Unlike Lafayette, John _does_ get flustered.  And it’s a beautiful sight to behold.  John sputters.  Blinking rapidly and mouth floundering for a response.  Aaron tries to stifle a laugh behind a cough, and Alex is looking between them like he’s seen the second coming.  He licks his lips, and Lafayette wants so badly to invite him to play as well.

Considering his boyfriend is right there…probably best not to tempt too much fate tonight.  “Unfortunately, lapin, we’ll have to wait for such things.”

It’s enough to settle John back down from his embarrassment, and he frowns at Lafayette.  “Why? What’s going on?”

“I have been reliably informed by Monsieur Hercules that if we do not attend the STD fair and get tested, he will drag us there by our ears himself.” John blinks at that.  Head tilting to the side awkwardly.

“Oh...right…uh... Okay.” Threading their fingers together, Lafayette sighs.

“We’ll need to do it between your next class.” John shrugs and lets Lafayette lead him forward.

Alex starts chatting about classes and homework.  Aaron adding a few anecdotes here or there about the time he took whatever class they’re going on about.  It’s nice.  A comforting give and take that makes Lafayette smile.  Enjoy the day even though it’s been hijacked by something strange.

Angelica and Eliza Schuyler meet them inside the student service center, and everyone exchanges names and their interest in participating.  Paperwork is handed out, and John peers down at the names and health questions that he’s being asked.  It’s not as comprehensive as a trip to the physician, but they do ask about contact information or if there’s anyone else who should be informed should he not be available.

John fills in the paperwork slowly.  Lethargically even.  Each line of his name being put down with the most fastidious penmanship possible.  Lafayette leans his arm against John’s and waits.  Feels how John leans back.  They sit together for a long while.  Clocking ticking down until John’s finished with his form.

He stands up and walks slowly toward Eliza.  Handing it over wordlessly.  She asks if he’d like to go next, and he nods mutely.  Stiff and awkward before her.  He hasn’t really spoken much since their change of plans.  Preferring to listen to Alex yammer and Aaron encourage.  “Mon amour?” Lafayette asks gently.

“I fucked a lot of people without protection,” John murmurs softly.  He flicks his eyes toward Lafayette.  Stiff and uncomfortable with the mere notion of what could possibly have happened.  It’s not something that Lafayette cares to dwell on for long.  He reaches out.  Wraps his arms around John’s body.

“If there is something, then there is something and we will work around it.  If there is nothing, then you will be comforted by that knowledge.” They should have done this ages ago.  But now? Now’s good too.  Now might even be better.  When they’re both doing well.  When John’s not dealing with a maelstrom, or loitering on the edges of disaster.

It’s just one more problem.  One more thing that he must deal with.  But it’s a small thing.  In the grand scheme of life.  This is a small thing.

Eliza welcomes John back to whatever examination area she’s got set up.  There’s a curtain and everything.  He glances towards Lafayette, who looks back at Eliza.  “May I?” He asks.  She nods her head.

“I can do you both together if you like?”

“Gee, can you, miss?” John teases awkwardly.  She sends him an amused glance.

“I have no problem putting you in your place Laurens, so watch your mouth.”

Lafayette will never forget, nor let John forget, just how quickly his “Yes, ma’am” came.  But John says it instinctively.  Eyes wide and somewhat shocked.  He looks honestly apologetic, and Eliza nods curtly before leading them to where she’s going to draw their blood.

Unable to help himself, Lafayette kisses John’s cheek and tells him he looks so pretty following orders.  It makes John flush dark and call him an ass, but it’s worth it.  Some of the anxiety has lessened a little.  Fading to the background as he sits in the chair Eliza directs him toward.

She asks him mundane questions, is good at distracting him.  Palpitates his arm for a vein, then wraps a strip of plastic about his bicep.  Tells him to pump his hand as he gets ready for the needle.

Lafayette’s grateful John’s never been interested in using intravenously.  Endlessly grateful that he’d never pushed his opiates addiction into its end game.  John’s veins are good.  She finds one easily and slides the needle in without worrying about tearing at a weak line.  At a damaged one.  And, from the skill and ease she had with working it, Lafayette’s grateful that she did it so well.  He won’t even bruise from this.

Slowly filling up a couple of vials, Eliza pulls the needle back and presses a cotton swab on the injection site.  She fetches a bandaid from a drawer and sets it in place.  Then she moves to reset her station for Lafayette.

She puts stickers on John’s vials, name, age, and patient number.  Sets them to the side, and removes her gloves.  Gets a new set, a new needle, new assortment of supplies.  Lafayette settles into position and holds out her arm.  She’s just as efficient as before.

“You both have really good veins for this,” she says when she wraps up.  “Do you know your blood types?”

“I’m A,” Lafayette replies.  He glances at John who shrugs.

“One of the O’s I think? O negative? O positive.  I don’t’ know.”

Eliza nods thoughtfully.  “Either is in short supply to be honest.  Have you considered donating?”

“I’m gay,” John replies tightly.  He crosses his arms over his chest.  “And I sleep around.  Pretty sure I’m never going to be on the short list for donations.” Eliza’s lips press together in a thin line.  She directs her attention back to the vials of blood on the table.

“That’s bullshit,” she decides.  “And homophobic.”

“It’s life.” Nodding wearily, Eliza stands.

“I have your contact information, and I can let you know when the results are back.  I know you have to get to class.” Removing her gloves she points them toward a table where you could get a bag of cookies and some candy for getting tested.  They thank her for her time, and depart.  Waving to Aaron as they go.  Alex had already been called in by another nurse.

John chews aggressively on his cookies.  Irritation obvious.  “What’s wrong, mon amour?”

“It _is_ homophobic you know,” he grumbles.  Biting the cookie so crumbs scatter against his shirt.  He ignores them.  “You could get something from anyone.  The fuck does it matter if you’re gay or not?”

“You want to donate blood?” Lafayette asks.  Just to be clear.  He’s not really sure what John’s complaining about.

“I’d like to _have the option_ of donating blood if I wanted to.”

“Like marriage?” John’s feet come to a stop.  He’s frozen stiff right in front of the door lead outside.

“I don’t want to get married,” John says quietly.

It’s said with the kind of tentative uncertainty that usually comes before a deep dark revelation.  But the revelation doesn’t come.  The explanation is non-existent.  Lafayette considers the news briefly and then tosses it aside.  “That was not a proposal, mon amour,” he says gently.  Not certain what land mines he was about to walk over.  

“I know that,” John snaps back.  Irritation flaring.  “I’m just saying.  That.  You know.  If it’s something you want to do, I’m not that guy.  I’m not going to marry you.  So.  There.” He tilts his chin up defiantly, and Lafayette rolls his eyes.

Leaning down, he captures John’s lips in a kiss.  Waiting until John relaxes underneath him before stepping back.  Reclaiming John’s hand and leading him through the doors.  A small beam of light peaks through the clouds and Lafayette squeezes John’s hand.  “I have no intentions of leaving you if that’s what you’re concerned with.  And it’s not something that’s affecting either of us now.  So we are good, yes?”

“Yes,” John agrees slowly.  “As long as you’re not going to be pissed at me ten years from now.  Because.  I already told you.  I don’t want to.”

“And I have never forced you to do something you don’t want,” Lafayette reminds.  It earns him another smile.  A squeeze of his hand.  It’s fine.  They’re good.  They’ve navigated past the explosions and are back on even ground.

Lafayette walks John to class and they finish their cookies and candy together.  Hand in hand.  Their conversation doesn’t pick up, but John does kiss Lafayette goodbye.  Tells him that he’ll see him at home.  That he’s glad he got to see him.

They get the results back on Friday.  They’re both fine.  


	3. Chapter 3

Alex screams.

John can’t help but grin.  Hoisting his friend up over one shoulder and running as fast as he can.  He’s gotten stronger since he’s started working out with Lafayette.  His thighs growing thick from his constant fencing.  He used to feel it in his back.  Tight muscles gripping his spine and squeezing him tight.  Making it hard for him to hold this position for long.  

But Alex is light.  Even thrashing, it’s almost effortless to keep him locked in position.  Trapped over John’s shoulder and not moving one bit. _It's fun._  He screams again and again, but John doesn’t care.  Just keeps running.  Trying not to trip on the uneven concrete.  

Madison's right behind them, telling him to be careful.  Chastising them even as he hurries to keep pace.  Not that that's going to do anything.  John’s laughing too loudly to care about Madison’s concerns, and Alex’s primal screams are almost impossible to hear over _anyway._

It’s late.  Finals week is upon them and Madison had offered to take them out for the night.  Rest and relax and have a good time before they need to throw themselves into endless testing.  Lafayette had begged out, waving him off and shaking his head.  Interested in attending, or intervening with their ‘friend time’.  

It’d been a lot of fun too.  John’s almost sorry Lafayette was left behind.  After half a semester of staying away from Jefferson for the most part, Madison’s been well and truly assimilated into the strange grouping between them.  He’s going to be heading back home over break, and John’s going to miss him.  

Squeezed in next to each other at a restaurant, John and Alex take turns pestering him about his plans.  His family.  Even got him speaking about his siblings a little and where he grew up.  He showed them pictures and told them stories.  It’d been surprisingly nice actually.  John and Alex squeezed in on either side of their friend and peered at the small images on the phone.  

With everything that’s been happening lately, John hasn’t thought much on his own siblings.  Marty’s getting old.  She’ll probably be graduating soon.  Heading to college on her own.  He can’t remember how far apart they are exactly.  A couple of years give or take.  But she was always clever.  Maybe she skipped a grade.  

He doesn’t know.

Maybe not.  That’s not that common.  

But the thoughts remain.  Circling about his head as Madison talks fondly of his siblings.  John struggles to remember his brothers and sisters more often than not.  He didn’t spend a lot of time with them growing up, and their names came about more frequently in letters from his ex-stepmother than anything else.  A cc on a Christmas card that keeps him up to date on names and ages.  Something that he generally forgets about, to be honest.  

Alex never talks about _his_ brother.  And if he does, he’s usually referring to Ned and not his _actual_ sibling.  John wouldn’t even know there _was_ an actual sibling if Alex hadn’t slipped up.  He’d muttered about it offhandedly during a storm.  Distracted and flinching at the sounds of tree-branches breaking off trunks.  Hitting the apartment building and windows shuddering.  The power had gone out, and they’d been curled up next to each other.  Riding out the night as the apartment became more and more cold.  

They never talked about it again.  If Alex wanted to talk about his brother, he’d tell John.  But as far as John can tell, Alex has no intentions of ever bringing up the topic in the future.  It’s...strangely not something John can relate with.  

He’s never had the opportunity to know his siblings.  Not really.  And the allure of them seems somehow untenable.  He wants to get to know them.  Wants to talk to them.  See what they’re like.  Make sure that they’re okay.  He doesn’t know what he’d do if they weren’t.  But.  He’s always wanted to _know._ And it’s an intrusive thought that badgers him endlessly when opens the door to anything sibling related.  

Madison’s brothers and sisters were perfectly happy, however.  No trauma or uncertainty there.  He flicked through picture after picture and told one random story after another.  The whole dinner had been filled with laughter and delight.  Joking and levels of hysteria that often got them sour looks from other patrons.  

Fuck ‘em.  

John doesn’t know when he’s going to see Madison or Alex again, and he wants to make the best of it while he can.  The Stevens offered for Alex to come back and spend the summer with them, and he hadn’t made up his mind yet.  Still trying to sort out if he and Aaron were going to do something together, or if he wanted to stay at Lafayette’s house when John.  

Lafayette had offered, trying to be nice.  And Alex and John both appreciated it.  But Alex was weird about things like that.  Didn’t like feeling as if he were an imposition.  Didn’t like putting himself somewhere only to feel beholden the whole time.  There was still time left before he had to make a final decision, but for now...

His best friend lay draped over John’s shoulder shrieking like a banshee.  Laughing and yelling at the same time.  “I’m gonna puke, I’m gonna puke, Imma puke— _John!”_ Okay.  Fine.  They’d only made it a few hundred feet, but if Alexander was determined to be _such_ a baby about it...John sets him down on his feet.  "Uuuugh I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," his friend whines.  Bending half over and rubbing at his stomach.  "M'gonna be sick."

"Cry-baby," John tells him.  Alex flips him off and gags.  Coughing as he pulls in air to his abused lungs.  John bounces on his toes.  He’s energized.  Wants to run around.  Wants to fence or fight or tear something apart.  He grins at Madison as he finally starts to catch up.  

Hands stuffed into his pockets, expression entirely too calm and placid all things considered.  John knows him better than that, though.  Can see his amusement peaking out behind that carefully controlled expression.  “You’re an asshole,” Alex tells John.  It washes off him like wet off a duck.  

He nudges Madison's arm.  Winks at him.  "C'mon, aren't ya gonna defend me? Please?"

Madison seems to mull it over.  Weighing the pros and cons before  shaking his head at long last.  Eventually declaring "Never," with the most unapologetic expression John's ever seen..  "C'mon you degenerates.  Don't you have boyfriends to be getting back to?"

“Thought we were getting ice cream?” John drawls even as Alex looks up at Madison.  Smiling wide and slipping a little closer.  He bats his eyes up at him.  

Whining, "Thought _you_ were our boyfriend, Mads," like a child.  He reaches out and loops one arm with Madison's.  Bouncing on his feet and easily setting aside his previous set of theatrics for a brand new version.  

It wouldn’t have been as funny if Madison actually hadn’t started to blush at the comment.  But he did.  He blushed dark and shook his head.  Mumbled some lame excuse that didn’t address the fact that he definitely, one hundred percent, had nothing to say to that.  It was _asking_ for the dual kisses on the cheek, one from Alex and one from John, and John didn’t even feel slightly bad about it.  

Just hooks his arm around Madison’s other arm, and leans in close.  Batting his eyes the whole while.  “Knock it off,” Madison manages to say, blushing even worse than before.  

“Don’t you love us anymore?” John asks, sweetly.  He’s spent enough time around Alex to match his mannerisms and his impressions.  Knows how to play up some of his unique quirks.  Tag-teaming might be a little unfair, but Alex rolls with it easily.

“Come on, come on tell us you love us.  Please.  Don’t deny it.  It’s not nice to deny it.”  Alex presses his head tight to Madison’s shoulder.  Regulating their pace as they walk.  Teasing more and more, because why not?

It’s been so good.  Felt so good.  Energy fills John’s body in ways it hasn’t in ages.  And Madison goes along with it for the most part.  Just nods his head and calls them both idiots.  It’s mild, as far as complaints go.  But with how light John feels at the moment, he doesn’t think anything could really bring him down.  

It’s been a fairly temperate day.  Spring weather coming up unseasonably warm to start with.  It hit seventy-five earlier, and it’s still warm even now.  Despite the sun setting.  Grey skies growing darker by the minute.  

There are street lights starting to turn on, and stores are closing all around.  A few curious pedestrians look over every so often.  Watching as Alex shrieks about something, or as John manages to get Madison to finally crack that stoic grin and actually _laugh._

“When’s French-fry’s dad coming back?” Madison asked, steering the conversation away from him being their presumptive plus one.  John snorts either way.  It’s not a subtle transition.  

“Not his dad, godfather.  And I don’t know.  Said he’d be back at the end of the month.  Can’t wait for you guys to actually meet him.” He’s somewhat ashamed that they’d never been introduced at this point.  Considering what was happening at that point in time...John’s not _too_ upset about it.  But it doesn’t change the fact that he should have worked harder to make an introduction once things had settled.  

Then again.  It still seems odd that John _wants_ to introduce members of Lafayette’s family to his friends.  Pierre and Lafayette have a thing where they schedule talks to each other on a semi-regular basis.  But John’s gotten looped into those calls.  Ends up calling even when it’s not on their schedule.  

And Pierre always answers.  Always asks about his day.  What’d he learn in school.  Did he find that topic interesting? Always offering a new fact or factoid.  It’s a habit.  Something nice to do at the end of the day.  Even if he does tie up Lafayette’s phone with an international call.  

Both Lafayette and Pierre insist that the calls are covered and for him not to worry about it.  John’s never heard about a phone plan that _covers_ international calls, he’s not going to argue.  It’s one of this small parts of their relationship with each other that John tries very hard to ignore.  Not notice.  Accept it as a part of Lafayette’s never ending wealth and move on from there.  

 

“Aren’t you gonna miss us, Mads?” John asks teasingly, letting his friend go as they get walk into the municipal parking lot.  

“At the moment?” he teases back, shaking his head.  It takes a little more coaxing for him to dislodge Alex, but eventually Alex lets go.  John stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans back, winking at his friend from behind.  It earns him another laugh, and it feels good.  Right.  Like everything’s coming together at long last.  

Madison pats his pockets for his keys, eventually pulling them out.  He stops though, just a few feet from his car.  Cursing low under his breath.  Frowning, John shifts position.  Trying to see the problem.  Oh.  

He’s got a flat.  

“You hit something?” John asks.  

“Must’ve,” Madison mumbles.  He pulls out his cellphone and flicks on its flashlight.  Scanning the tire for anything obvious.  

Alex squints toward the back of the car.  “You gotta spare?”

No reply.  “Mads?” John presses.  

“What? Oh.  Maybe? I think there’s one under the trunk.  Lemme see.”  It’s not the answer that John was expecting.  Madison almost sounded distracted.  Confused.  John wants to press.  Ask him for clarification or see what’s on his mind, but he doesn’t have a chance.

Madison walks around to the back of the car, still holding his cell phone aloft like a flashlight.  Both Alex and John standing back and watching.  Bending over, their older friend is caught entirely unaware.  So are they.  They don’t see it moving until it’s already happening, and Alex doesn’t scream in time.  

When he does, though, he screams _loud._

A figure steps out from beside the car next to theirs.  Swinging a stick or a rod or a _something_ right at Madison.  Alex scrambles, and Madison falls.  Not expecting it in the slightest.  The assailant goes for a second strike, but that’s _not happening._

John dives forward, keeping his head and shoulder low as he drives straight into the opposing party’s stomach.  He knocks him back.  Rod going flying as John gets him in the solar plexus.  Fingers slack.  One strike, two.  John punches hard and fast.  Gets the jerk between the ribs and doesn’t show any signs of stopping.  He hits faster and faster and faster.  Putting every ounce of energy he has in driving the man down and to his knees.  

He’s taller than John.  Dressed in black, with a dark beard and braided hair.  John’s seen him before.  Can’t remember where right now.  But he’s _seen_ him before.  He doesn’t let the man rally.  Intends on finishing it quick as can be.  Hits him everywhere he can and he doesn’t stop for anything.  

Except.

Except something jerks him backwards.  His shirt suffocates him as he’s pulled in the opposite direction.  He flails.  Reaches around himself and trying to get hands on the _second_ assailant.  He’s unsuccessful, but something undoubtedly is, because he’s quickly released.  Shouts filling the parking lot.  

Breathing hard, John finally manages to get a look around them.  There are four ass holes.  He recognizes all of them vaguely, but in a group—it’s easier to figure it out.  Jefferson.  They all ran errands for Jefferson from time to time.  Acting as muscle when Jefferson wanted to prove a point, but _didn’t_ want to get his own hands dirty.  

John snarls.   _Point fucking made._

Madison’s struggling to get onto his feet, but that first hit left him dazed.  Which left Alex all but clawing at the man who’d clotheslined John.  He gets hit right in the eye, and John hisses as Alex falls against Madison’s car.  Denting the door and crumbling to the ground, stunned.  

One of the punks tries to go finish the job, but John gets in the way.  Blocks the first blow and promptly breaks the asshole’s nose.  “Get the _fuck_ away from my friends!” he shouts loudly.  

Fights with Lafayette had left him feeling slow.  Hardly ever able to get a hit in.  but this isn’t like that.  This isn’t too fast.  If anything.   _They’re_ moving too slow.  He can see them moving.  See them changing course.  Changing direction.  Can see each jab, each cross.  Can see the knees coming up and the feet lashing out.  

John blocks.  Returns fire.  Parries.  He curses the whole time.  Landing strikes on pressure points and decommissioning where he can.  When someone tries to sneak up alongside, Alex leaps onto the man’s back.  Arms going around the jerk’s neck.  Squeezing and clinging like a koala.  John’s seen him _bite_ people before.

And while the image is humorous, John’s got no intention of letting Alex potentially catch something from these _pricks._

John sends an uppercut into the fucker’s stomach.  And an elbow right into the man’s face.  Alex releases him just as he starts to fall, hitting the ground in a dead faint.  “Knife!”

Madison shouts it just as John starts turning.  He shoves Alex to the side, both of them just avoiding the frantic slashing of the biggest of Jefferson’s goons.  The knife swings through the air.  Left.  Right.  Left.  Right.  Up down.  

Madison’s finally on his feet and trying to help where he can with the remaining two unarmed jerks.  Which leaves John time to just focus on this latest catastrophe.  He’d heard once that the first thing you need to know about getting involved in a knife fight...is you’re going to get cut.

Well.  That’s almost certainly true.  

The knife swings down in an arc, and John doesn’t avoid all the way.  It slashes across his arm.  Glancing off his cuff, of all things, and only knicking the skin by his elbow.  The angle gives John enough time to throw his hands out.  Catch the man’s wrist and twist it.  Elbowing him brutally in the face.  

The knife clatters to the ground.  John kicks it as hard as he can.  Loses track of it as the man he’s fighting breaks free.  Getting a solid strike against John’s side.  

 _“Fuck!”_ One of his floating ribs breaks.  Pain snaps through his body.  Taking his breath away.  He pulls his arms up.  Doesn’t matter.  The jerk grabs his shirt and hauls him into the air.  Landing punch after punch on his arms, trying to get around to hit him in the head.  

Alex lets out a roaring scream of defiance, and John misses what he does.  Just knows that he’s been dropped.  He hits the ground hard.  Knees collapsing.  Breathing comes too slow.  His head’s spinning.  He looks around helplessly, trying to keep track of the situation and _what the hell is going on._

The big one’s got a hand around Alex’s head and John can’t get back up in time before Alex is thrown face first into the hood of the Madison’s car.  He bounces off it with a sickening crack.  Not moving at all.  

Roaring in rage, John leaps to his feet.  Bounds forward.  Kicks.  Punches.  Claws.  He gets hit right on back, but John’s got more desperation.  More fearless abandon.  Lafayette calls him reckless.  But if there’s one thing John’s good at, it’s taking a hit.  

He punches quick and is out fast.  He get’s the prick in the face.  Blinds him temporarily, and is getting ready for the coup de gras, when something blindingly _awful_ slams into his shoulder.  “John!” Madison’s shouting his name, and that’d be interesting to think about, except his shoulder is on _fire._

His lungs have ceased working.  His head is spinning, and bile is climbing up his throat.  The man in front of him hasn’t stopped fighting, and John just barely manages to pull his fist back and slam it into the man’s throat before he loses all balance or sense of self.  

He stumbles.  Turns around as best he can.  The pain keeps flaring.  He blinks desperately, trying to see what’s going on.  What happened.  

Oh.  

There’s the knife.  It’s in the last guy’s hand, and there’s blood on it.  Dripping down the edge toward the handle.  The knife comes at him again, and John tries to move.  

He does.  

But his arm isn’t quite working properly.  Isn’t doing what he wants it to.  Pain is searing through him so sharp and so fast that he really _is_ going to be sick any second now.  He watches, fascinated, as the knife slides into his arm.  

Is even more fascinated as it’s jerked out.  

_That’s….not good._

John pretty sure he’s going to pass out.

His head spins badly.  Dark spots coating his vision as his tongue feels tingly.  Little pin pricks filling his mouth as he trips over his own feet.  He blinks.  Blinks again.  Sees a blurring shape fill his vision, but it’s so dark and so malformed he can’t make it out.  Something grabs him by the shirt, and then he’s tossed.  

Dropped to the ground like a wet rag.  His legs collapse beneath him and he pukes.  Nausea taking precedence as he vomits in the middle of a fight.  It’s not good.  He knows it’s not good.  He’s too dizzy to care.  He curls around himself.  

Voices cut into his ears.  Someone touches his arm.  He chokes.  Pain blinding.  He shakes his head.  Make it stop.  Make it stop.  Make it stop.  

“John!” he tries to open his eyes.  Blink passed the darkness and the blurred vision.  The pain is lancing too strong.  Sharp and violent.  He screams.  Voices are floating in and out.  Someone’s holding him upright.  He tries to move.  Doesn’t want to be touched.  Wants to be left alone in the dark.  All alone.  Leave him there to curl up and hide.  Under the blankets.  Under the bed.  No one can see him there.  No one looks for him here.  

He thinks he’s losing time.  Consciousness fading in and out so rapidly that he doesn’t know what’s happening.  Where he is.  What’s going on.  He shivers and cries and he tries to say no.  He doesn’t want this.  He doesn’t want—

There’s fire burning under his skin.  There’s blood splattering on the ground.  He feels hands on his back.  His front.  His arm.  He doesn’t like this.  Doesn’t want this.  Stop.  Stop.  Stop.  Turn around.  Reverse directions.  Let him go.  He doesn’t want to be here.  

This hurts too much.  

It hurts too much.  

“John!” He forces his eyes open.  Flinches badly in the face of the bright lights and the scrubs and the straps.  He’s being held in place.  He’s tied down.  Lafayette’s not here.  Lafayette’s supposed to be here.  He’s not supposed to leave him alone at night.  

They made a promise.  His cuff—

_Where the fuck is his cuff?_

It’s gone.  Gone and replaced by blood streaming down his skin.  Someone’s holding him firm.  Keeping him steady.  Forcing him into immobility.  He can’t move.  He can’t breathe.  He thrashes.  Desperate and hopeful.  He wants to go.  He wants to go.  Stop it.  

Laf— _Laf!_

An EMT is there.  Two of them.  On either side of John.  Talking to each other and making comments without him.  He twists his head left and right.  Someone calls his name.  Alex.  Alex is in the ambulance.  He’s bloodied and bruised.  He’s reaching out for John, and John manages to steal his hand away from the vampires desperate to control him.  

They cling to each other.  John can’t breathe.  His lungs are seizing in his chest.  But Alex is here.  Alex is here.  He’s okay.  He’s going to be okay.  Where’s Madison?  Where’s Madison? John tries to sit up.  He gasps, pain sliding through him unlike anything he’s ever felt before.  Tears are pulling down his face.  Dragging his skin with it.  Burning like acid along his cheeks.

He knows he’s trying to speak, trying to get words out.  Trying to ask—but he can’t get them to form properly.  His voice sounds like a garbled mess even to him.  Consonants not forming, slurring into vowels that don’t abate.  He tries.  He tries so hard.  He reaches out and he squeezes Alex’s hand.  Please.  Please figure it out—

“Madison’s okay,” Alex tells him.  Thank God.   “He’s calling Laf.”

Oh God.  Lafayette.  He’s been good.  John’s been so good.  He’s been trying so hard not to mess up.  Trying so hard to keep things going well.  To stop giving Lafayette reasons to worry about him.  To stop making him feel bad.  To only bring him happiness.  John’s killed his year.  He’s made it so that his year has been so stressful and awful and now this is one more thing and—

“—John? My name’s Marta we’re on our way to County General all right?” he’s asked by the nearest EMT.  He drags his eyes away from Alex’s battered face.  Looks at the lady blankly.  Can just see the other woman filling a syringe.  

He jolts back.  Jerks back as far as he can go.  It pulls at his wounds.  He screams.  Screams and sobs.  Nausea rising.  He tries to swallow it.  Desperate to not get sick in this place.  It’ll end up on one of them and he doesn’t want to.  Doesn’t want to.  

“No-no-no drugs—” he manages to babble out.  Flailing his injured arm to the left.  Right.  Anywhere but _there._ Anywhere but where she could grab it.  Put the needle to his skin.  Stop.  Stop it now.  He didn’t ask for this.  He didn’t want this.  He just wanted to have fun with his friends.

“It’s just a little bit of morphine, it will help take the edge off for the ride.  You’re in a lot of pain, and any more you’ll go into shock,” Marta explains clinically.  

“No.  No- _no.  I-I don’t want morphine.”_ He’s been so good.  He’s been so good.  He’s been so good and he doesn't want to lose this.  Not now.  Not like this.  Please no.  Please not like this.  He’d been doing good.  He promised to stop this time.  He promised.  He’d done it.  He’d done it.  He was good.  He was good.  He stopped.  He stopped.  “Please no.  No.  No.”

Alex is squeezing his hand.  Holding it so tight John wonders why he can’t feel _that_ instead of the horrible agony that is his right arm.  His right arm is screeching so profoundly with pain, he’s certain that he’s never going to be able to use it ever again.  It might as well be cut off completely.  

He looks at it.  There’s blood soaking down his skin.  From shoulder to finger tips.  Bandages are saturated clear through.  Red staining them dark and splotchy.  He can’t breathe.  He truly can’t.  There’s something keeping his lungs from inhaling properly.  

He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows that it hurts.  It hurts and he doesn’t like it.  But the syringe keeps getting closer, and the EMTs are discussing his treatment plan, and no one is _fucking listening_ to him.  

“He said no,” Alex chokes out.  

Sweet Alex.  Beautiful Alex.  Alex with his dark hair hanging in curtains around his face.  Alex with bruises around his eyes.  Lips split badly.  Throat marred red.  Alex with John’s blood all over his clothes.   _His_ Alex, reaches out for the EMT’s hand and shoving her backwards.  Away from John and away from his arm.  The syringe sliding out of sight.  It’s still too close.  John knows it’s there.  It’s still too close.  But it’s not _right here._ It’s not in front of his face.  Not threatening and preparing to do more damage than Jefferson and his goons and their knives could possibly comprehend.  “He said _no._ ”

“Sir...he’s been stabbed.  If the pain reaches too high, he _will_ fall into shock.” Marta looks down at John.  She’s not lying.  The pain is unlike anything he’s ever felt.  The muscles in his back feel like they’re never going to move again.  The bone where the knife dragged across his shoulder feels like it’s going to shatter at any moment.  His arm.  

_His arm._

He can’t move his fingers.  He’s been trying since he woke up.  Since he started to realize that he was in an ambulance.  That they were going to the hospital.  That Alex was here, and Lafayette wasn’t and...and it doesn’t matter.  Because the whole arm is dead.  Numb.  It’s laying still and aching like there’s never going to be another moment without excruciating _pain_ ever again.  

“No...not morphine,” John insists.  He won’t do morphine.  He _won’t._ He looks up at Alex.  Desperate.  Pleading.  Alex is as white as a sheet.  He’s looking close to passing out.  He shakes his head to the left.  To the right.  He squeezes John’s good hand.  He’s crying.

He’s crying and shaking, and trying as hard as he can.  “He said no.”

 _“Why?!”_ Marta’s assistant asks.  

“ _No_ opiates of any kind,” Alex insists.  “Give him an NSAID if you have to.  But _no_ opiates.” The assistant looks like she’s about to Argue, but Marta holds out her hand.  She meets John’s eyes.  

“Are you sure?” she asks slowly.  John’s sure.  He’s deadly sure.  He’s never going to use another opiate again if he can help it.  He never injected.  But he knows the taste of addiction.  Knows full well what that will do to him.  What it’s going to do to him.  He can’t.  He can’t do this to himself.  He can’t give in to it.  No matter how bad the pain.  Because he doesn’t know if he can pull himself out of it again.  Doesn’t know if he can step back and away from that _need_ and instead return to sobriety the moment he’s out of the hospital.

Lafayette’s not going to leave him.  John knows that now.  But John also knows that if he gives into this one thing _now,_ it’s going to be an endless journey.  Sneaking around behind Lafayette’s back.  Trying to get another score.  Trying to chase a high that he needs.  God.   _John knows he needs this_ .  But he can’t.  He can’t.  He _promised_ himself.

No more.  No more ever again.  No matter what.  He promised.  He wants to do good.

“I’m-I’m-I’m sure.” Another wave goes through him.  Searing up his arm.  Down his back.  He’s struggling to draw breath.  Alex is squeezing the life out of his hand.  Marta nods.  

She bites her lip, then focuses on his injury.  “You can discuss that with your doctor.” It’s as much as he’s going to get out of her.  But for now.  At least _this_ battle is won.  

Alex is shaking violently at his side.  Lifting his hand up to kiss his knuckles.  John’s shivering too.  He’s _fucking_ terrified.

He doesn’t know what to do.  The ambulance starts pulling away.  The lights are flickering out the windows.  Alex’s hand is tight around John’s and there’s not a doubt in John’s mind that Alex is going to stay with him until the end.  Until he can’t follow anymore.  He’s going to stay here the whole time.  John’s never been more grateful in all his life.

 _He said ‘no’ for me,_ John thinks half hysterically.  Knowing full well that now is not the time to behaving an emotional breakdown over the fact that Alexander said ‘no.’ It doesn’t stop it from happening.  It doesn’t stop him from squeezing Alex’s hand, and riding each surge of agony straight through until the final shimmering moment of incandescent light.  Searing through him skin and bones, tearing his whole being asunder.  Alex said ‘no’.

He kept his promise.   _Thank God._


	4. Chapter 4

When it comes right down to it, Aaron and Lafayette don’t generally spend a lot of time together.  Mostly, it’s like playing musical chairs.  They circle around similar interests, but generally are always left out when something involves the other.  As far as Lafayette can tell, their social calendars overlap.  But they don’t intersect.  And for that reason alone...they just don’t  _ spend  _ all that much time together or in each other’s company.  Alex and John and Aaron will play somewhere.  Alex and John and Lafayette will play somewhere.  But very infrequently is it Aaron and Lafayette in one place at one time. 

But.  This is supposed to be something fun, and so Lafayette’s making a new friend.   The idea had started as an offhand comment.  Something that Lafayette hadn’t put much weight into when he’d first heard it.   _ John and Madison have both been clean for three months.   _ Aaron had asked if Lafayette did anything special for John during anniversaries, and Lafayette admitted that he never thought of it.  Every day seemed like an accomplishment, so stacking them all together seemed odd.  

But this one’s nice.  With classes ending, it’s a good time to have a party.  Alex would be able to join them.  Pierre too.  He’d agreed to come early to celebrate, though told them he’d stay out of their way for finals.  Not wanting to interrupt any studying that they’d need to do.  It’s all lies, of course.  Lafayette knows John will want to study with Pierre and Pierre will be happy to study with him in turn. 

“He’s been a good friend to John, right?”  Aaron asks curiously as they finish the final preparations for the surprise party.  It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Alex to agree to keep Madison and John occupied for a few hours.  Dinner and some shenanigans in town would give them more than enough time to put out chips and food and get some music going. 

“Pierre?”  Lafayette asks just to confirm.  He pours a bag full of jolly ranchers into a bowl and then shifts it so the red ones are on the bottom.  No one will eat anything else if they could find the reds so easily.  They needed to work for their free candy.  Honestly. 

Aaron makes a noise of agreement, and Lafayette has to think for a moment.  “He’s been very good for John.  I think...it is nice to have a positive influence on someone’s life?”  He’s not saying it right most likely.  But the topic is a strange one.  One that he hadn’t thought that Aaron had much emotional investment in to begin with. 

The younger man just returns his attention to the food they’re getting together.  They’d already moved the couches out of the way in the living room.  Made up some streamers and had a drink station going.  Lafayette’s iPod is primed and ready to go.  Really, they’re almost done all things considered.  “I’m glad,” Aaron tells him.  

_ Broken families all of them, _ Lafayette thinks as his phone buzzes in his pocket.  It’s a text from Pierre.  Speak of the devil.  “He’s an hour away.”  Apparently the plane landed a touch behind schedule, but he was going to make it as fast as he could.  Maybe a little later than they’d hoped, it would have been nice for him to have arrived prior to John getting back, but still almost there.  

Lafayette smiles faintly at the phone.  “I did not enjoy lying to John about when he would arrive.”  Continuing the illusion that Pierre wasn’t going to be coming back for a few more weeks had been hard.  Especially when John would look almost longingly at the phone when he’d finished talking to the older man.  As if he could just crawl inside and teleport himself somewhere else. 

Lafayette had teased him for being home sick a grand total of  _ one  _ time.  John hadn’t appreciated the analogy, had gotten shockingly quiet, and Lafayette had spent the remainder of the evening trying to make it up to him.  Jokes about his family life...never went over well.  

Still.  The lie is almost done, and it’ll be a good thing for John, Lafayette thinks. He’s missed Pierre far too much to be mad at Lafayette for misleading him.  At least Lafayette’s  _ pretty  _ sure that’s how relationships work.  You lie a little about secret gifts, but then the other person’s really happy in the end.  Aaron tells him he’s thinking too much. 

He’s probably right. 

For the most part, conversation between he and Aaron has been an easy exchange.  Even if they never did spend much time together, they know enough about each other to hold a conversation.  Aaron even admits that he and Madison weren’t really close until Alex and John started taking over as priorities.  Telling a few stories about John and Madison’s friendship before John started trying to get sober.  They weren’t that good.  “I’m glad he’s doing better,” Aaron admits honestly.  Lafayette is as well.  

Every day John wakes up and is  _ happy,  _ content and smiling the whole time, Lafayette breathes a little easier.  Feeling as if the world’s finally started to settle into an easy pattern.  Right where it belongs. “And how are things with you and ma petite?” Lafayette asks curiously.  

“...Alex?” Aaron clarifies.  Lafayette nods.  “It’s...interesting.  I wasn’t really looking for a relationship.  But…” Alex is hard not to like.  

He’s brash and moves too fast for his own good, but he’s genuinely  _ hard _ not to like.  He’s a good person beneath all his bluster.  And his reconnection with John has been nothing but positive.  Just the other night they’d been curled up next to each other for hours.  Watching  _ Looking _ and cooing over Jonathan Groff.  John dozing through the bulk of it.  Right hand stretched out to hold Lafayette’s even as he cuddled with his best friend.  

Aaron finishes with the streamer he was working on.  Tacking it up per Alex’s very specific instructions.  Alex had been endlessly upset that he hadn’t been able to help put the house together, but needs must.  No one else really  _ could  _ be responsible for occupying both Madison and John at the same time.  Not without it seeming suspicious.   

To rectify the loss, Alex had taken pictures of house parties he liked from google.  He spent days sending them to Aaron.  Insisting on their exact placement.  Since they started decorating, Aaron had to keep checking his phone to make sure it was accurate.  Mumbling “Apparently John likes things like this!” and “Alex thinks Madison would love these balloons here...”

The whole affair seemed a little capricious, but ah well.   _ C’est la vie. _

A car pulls up in the driveway, but it’s too early for Pierre and the vehicle is too big for Madison’s car.  Feet sound loudly on the front steps, then the door’s being pushed open without the courtesy of a knock.  Hercules strides in.  Hoisting up two six packs of soda and an armful of beer like trophies of war.  Grumbling, “You would not  _ believe  _ the lines,” as he moves to set them down on the drink station.   

“Did you get wine?” Lafayette asks.  Because _ he’d  _ been very specific too.  They all could enjoy their bonbons and their chips, but if he has to eat this for the rest of the night, he’s going to be very unhappy.  He needs something that’s actually made for an adult, thank you very much. 

His friend actually rolls his eyes.  Scoffing at Lafayette like he’d said something particularly absurd.  “Of course I got your damn wine.  What do you take me for, an idiot?” No.  But Lafayette doesn’t see it.  He sees soda and beer.  And he’s not impressed with Hercules’ posturing.  “It’s in the truck.” 

Nodding, Lafayette steps out of the kitchen and heads to Hercules’ vehicle.  Opening doors until he sees the bottle in question.  He checks the label.  Not bad.  Considering the fact that Hercules couldn’t care less about wine if he tired, it’s actually nice.  

Maybe if he’s feeling particularly lucky he’ll see about getting John to try some.  John is unreasonably adorable when he’s drunk.  And he likes the taste of it too much to not drink tonight.  Probably not the  _ best  _ idea to tempt him with another vice, but John’s never shown even the slightest inclination for abusing alcohol as he had his pills.  If anything, he’d shied away from it.  Particularly liquor.  Beer and wine he enjoyed, but he never tended to stray toward anything else.  Never gave Lafayette any reason to worry. 

Heading back inside, he checks the clock.  They should be here any minute now.  Anticipation builds.  He’s so excited for tonight.  He wants to show John the ring he bought.  It’d been a whim.  Something that he saw online and just couldn’t help but purchase.  A little bunny that wraps around his finger.  Smiling happily as it tucks itself into its tail.

It’ll make John roll his eyes.  Scoff.  Mutter and cross his arms.   _ Blush.   _ It’ll make John blush, and Lafayette wants to see that.  Wants to see him blush and fumble and look awkward and uncomfortable.  Wants to see him struggling to piece together that Lafayette bought it because he loves John.  Wants to carry him with him. 

Rotating the ring on his finger, Lafayette casts another look around.  It’s perfect.  They’d done a really good job.  His phone buzzes as Hercules and Aaron start discussing summer plans.  Hercules is planning on going back to Ireland for a few weeks.  Maybe swinging down to France to visit Lafayette’s parents.   _ Good luck,  _ Lafayette thinks savagely as he pulls it out.  Pierre’s ten minutes out.  He just stopped for gas.  Do they have everything they want? Is there anything he can pick up for them?

Lafayette replies that they’re fine, and sets the phone aside.  

“So you own this house? It’s not a rental?” Aaron asks curiously.

“I bought it when I first started school here,” Lafayette confirms.  “Buying seemed far more practical than renting in any case.  Aaron nods slowly.  “I have heard such horror stories of your rental practices.  Your landlords here are not so good.” 

“They can be pretty touch and go.  Sometimes they’re all right though.  What’re your plans with it when you graduate?”

“Haven’t thought about it.  It would depend what I am doing after graduation.” John’s a freshman.  Lafayette will graduate before him.  And then what? Graduate school? Perhaps.  Lafayette’s not entirely sure.  

Can’t divine the future and know if they’re even still going to be together at that point in time.  But he hopes so.  It’ll be nice spending years with John.  Watching him grow.  Fencing with him.  Perhaps even expanding their repertoire to other sports.  Other events.  Other games.

Lafayette thinks he’ll like that a lot.

He fidgets through the small talk.  But nearly jumps straight to the door when he sees lights in the driveway.  He pulls it open, grinning, faltering only for a moment when he notices it’s Pierre and not Madison.  His godfather catches the shift in mood almost immediately.  Rolling his eyes as he gets out of his vehicle.   _ “Rude, Gil, very rude.”   _

_ “It’s not my fault,”  _ Lafayette excuses before striding forward and wrapping the man up in a tight hug.  He looks well.  All things considered, he looks very well.  

Stepping away, Pierre waves toward the car.   _ “Help me get this all inside,”  _ he beseeches.  Lafayette agrees, frowning when he catches sight of a few wrapped packages.   _ “Yes, I know it’s John and James’ party, but these are just little things.” _

He nudges Lafayette to bring them in, and even has him pass out Aaron’s and Hercules’ when they step through the door.  Pierre wastes little time, kissing Aaron’s cheeks and saying, “We haven’t met, hello, I’m Pierre.”

“H-hello?” Aaron stumbles, staring at the brightly colored paper.   

Lafayette snorts at the introduction.  Doesn’t say a word about the presents.  And instead, starts looking for a box of his own.  He gets swat for it.  Pierre rolling his eyes and telling him to behave.  “They’re just knick-knacks.  That’s it.  Things I thought might interest you.” 

“Where’s mine?” Lafayette asks anyway.  Even as Hercules gives _la bise_ to Pierre and thanks him properly.  

“Manners, love.  Manners.” Pierre waves him off.  “I like the decor.” 

“Ah yeah, Alex was very insistent,” Aaron explains weakly.  He’s holding the box like a ticking bomb.  And really.  That’s a bit excessive.  

Hercules notices and rolls his eyes.  “ _ He’s  _ the one you have to watch out for,” Lafayette’s oldest friend says, poking his finger towards him.  “Pierre’s always given very tactful gifts.”

That’s true, too.  

No matter how much Lafayette begged Pierre to buy him a motorcycle when he was a child, his godfather had only provided progressively more interesting _bicycles_ over the years.  Seemingly uninterested or devoid of any understanding to what actually made up a  _ motorcycle _ , and why Lafayette wanted one.  

Probably for the best too.  Lafayette crashed every one of his bicycles and could never seem to keep the one dirtbike Lafayette  _ did  _ manage to buy upright.  He’d crashed that no less than four times before he conceded that maybe motorcycles weren’t for him.  

Presents placed on the coffee table next to some chip bowls, Lafayette leads Pierre upstairs.  Helps get his bags settled in.  “How was the flight?” he asks politely, even as Pierre’s tugging his tie loose and tossing it on the bed.  

“It was fine.  Your parents send their regards.” As they always do whenever they’re not there.  Lafayette tries not to show that it matters to him one way or another, but Pierre rolls his eyes.  Shakes his head.  Mutters, “Honestly,” under his breath.  “You spoke with your mother not long ago.” 

“I did.” 

“And she helped, did she not?”

“She didn’t...make the situation worse.” 

“Perhaps you should try  _ talking  _ to your mother more than once every year?” 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t let her call from your phone knowing I’ll answer it.” He hadn’t complained about that yet.  But now seems as good a time as any.  

Pierre didn’t seem too surprised.  After all this time, he must have been expecting it.  “I apologize,” he says evenly.  At least he wasn’t trying to deny it.  He reaches out and takes hold of Lafayette’s shoulders.  Kissing his forehead with a gentle press of his lips.  “I should not have tricked you.”

The apology is everything that Lafayette wanted, and yet he’s not capable of feeling anything of particular interest about it.  He’s not even angry at Pierre.  Doesn’t have any of the rolling emotions that made the initial encounter so dissatisfying.  

His mother had done well.  She’d treated Lafayette like a functional human being.  Had managed to have a discussion with him on something he’d truly cared for.  She’d even helped.  At the end of it all.  She’d  _ helped _ .  

So he’s not really mad about the outcome.  Just the subterfuge.  “Promise you will not do so again?” he clarifies.  Just to be sure.  “ _ Especially  _ not to John.” John doesn’t need tricks played on him.  Of any kind.  

Pierre actually looks offended that Lafayette even asked.  Frowning and sulking back a little bit.  Arms crossing over his chest.  Lafayette didn’t care how delicate Pierre’s sensibilities were.  He only cared about making sure his point had been made.  

“Promise me,” he orders.  

“I promise.  I will not trick John into speaking with anyone he’s not expecting to speak to.  Not without first retaining his permission for such a transaction.” That’s the best that he could hope for.  If John wanted to talk to someone else, that was his prerogative.  Lafayette certainly couldn’t stop him.  

A chair moves loudly against the floor downstairs.  There are quick voices talking rapidly back and forth.  Lafayette turns slightly.  Frowning as he listens to someone’s feet plodding briskly up the stairs.  

Hercules.  

He’s out of breath from the run.  But that’s not what’s concerning Lafayette.  That’s not what he cares about.  What he cares about, is that Hercules looks like he’s seen a ghost.  

“Aaron got a text,” he says.  Nervous.  Unsettled.  It’s not a good text.  “He’s trying to call through to Alex now...but Alex isn’t picking up the phone.”

“What was the text?” Lafayette asks slowly.  

“There was a fight.” There’s always a fight.  John’s incapable of not getting into fights.  It’s one of his less charming qualities.  “Some guys jumped them on their way back.  Alex didn’t know who.” Pierre’s hand touches Lafayette’s shoulder.  Weighing him down.  Keeping him locked and steady.  Unmoving as Hercules’ tongue flicks out between his teeth.  Wetting his lips and making him look harried.  Hercules goes on, “It’s not good.” 

“How bad is it?” Pierre asks calmly.  He’s the champion of calm.  The immigrant who learned before he could talk how to listen to someone spit hate in his face, and just stand there.  Letting it wash off him like water on a duck.

“Bad.  John got stabbed.” For the second time this year, Lafayette’s stomach sank through the floor and disappeared into the planet’s core.  

It felt like the world was ending all over again.

That’s when the rage starts.  

***

The hospital smells like antiseptic.  Stinging and cloying.  Wrapping around his body like a taint of sick all on its own.  It’s suffocating in its presence, and it stains everything with a shimmering veneer of intolerable gloom. Offset, obviously, by too bright lights.  White washed walls.  Happy colored tiles that are speckled with streaks of occasional black.  Traffic lanes drawn on the ground to show which way is which.  Purple and green chairs that line the walls.  Tables with friendly magazines.  Late night TV playing on mute in the corner. 

Lafayette steps inside the hospital, and everything cuts into him at once.  None of it matters.  None of it’s important.  He couldn’t care less about any of the sights and smells and options on the tables.  He’s looking for something.  And he doesn’t see it.  Doesn’t see  _ them.  _ Alex should be in the waiting room, but he’s not.  Madison isn’t either.  Lafayette doesn’t have anything to go off of.  Nothing to help give him an idea of what’s happening and why.  

Behind him, Pierre squeezes his shoulder.  Clenches his fingers down so tight that Lafayette feels like his arm’s being torn from his body.  Bitten off by the jaws of a shark.  Tearing him asunder.  His knees feel like they’re going to give out.  Pierre doesn’t let him go.  Instead, he squeezes harder.  Directs him toward the nurse’s station. 

_ I’ve been good.  _  Lafayette thinks.   _ Haven’t I? I’ve been really good.  _  His anxiety has lessened.  He hasn’t said anything to push John over the edge recently.  He’s been so careful in making sure their house was a safe haven.  He’s been sleeping again.  Finding so much comfort in knowing John’s there with him.  That he’s not going to slip away in the middle of the night because his mind keeps spinning around uncontrollably and he can’t get it to stop.   _ I’ve been good.  _

And if Lafayette has been  _ good... _ John has been  _ phenomenal.   _ Going to class.  Turning his grades around.  Handing in homework on time.  Going out with his friends and enjoying his life.  Fencing and sparring.  Laughing and enjoying his time with Lafayette.  Some of the darkness has started to ease off his shoulders, and he’s been doing so well.  So absolutely, perfectly, wonderfully well. 

Even his professors had commented on how well he’d been doing.  How hard he was working.  He already signed up for classes next semester, and he’s going to be focusing more on his biology work.  Getting ready for his more in depth seminars and labs.  He’ll be doing dissections and maybe even the occasional field work.  He was almost done with finals and—

It’s not fair.  It’s not fair. 

“Hello, miss?” Pierre asks.  Leaning over the counter at the nurse’s station.  He’s got his court face on.  The pleasant one with a slight edge that is only a half step off natural.  Lafayette cannot bring himself to speak.  To comment.  To ask.  “We received a phone call regarding a few friends of ours, John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton, and James Madison.  Would you be able to give us an update on any of them?

The nurse’s eyes widen.  Nods quickly.  Starts making a phone call.  Tells Pierre to wait.  Someone will be right there.  He thanks her.  Steps back, dragging Lafayette with him.  Aaron and Hercules are there.  All out of breath and out of sorts.  They don’t look like they know what to say.  What to do.  Everything’s a mess.  Lafayette stares at them.  He can’t think.  Not about them.  Not about the hospital.  His mind is twirling around uselessly, but all the can think of is how it’s not fair. 

None of this is fair. 

In Lafayette’s vast frame of reference, he’s come across more than one textbook that explored psychology.  Pathology.  Criminology.  He had to write term papers and essays.  He had lived through his own experiences.  Spoken with his own head shrinks.  

Bad things happen to good people.  That’s life.  He understands that.  He’s okay with that.  But there has to be some leeway.  Some benefit.  Some hope.  Some light at the end of the tunnel.  A trade off where you’re rewarded for your good behavior.  Otherwise, what’s the point in trying so hard?  What’s the point in trying to reach a goal of doing  _ good _ , when there is nothing good to reach for?  When everything is just broken and wrong?  

He’s heard this before.  This theory.  This thought.  A song Pierre listened too occasionally when he could be bothered to remember he owned an iPod.   _ No good deed goes unpunished.   _ Lafayette never understood what it was getting at.  Clearly. He hadn’t been trying hard enough. 

A doctor arrives.  Madison is with her.  His head’s tucked down.  Hands stuffed in his pockets.  Lafayette steps toward him.  Pulls his face up.  There are bruises along the side.  Blood still staining his cheek.  It’s not as bad as his clothes.  His clothes are covered in blood.  There aren’t any cuts.  Any tears.  The blood’s not his.  

_ John’s been stabbed.   _

Oh God.  

“He’s pre-surgery,” Madison tells Lafayette.  He keeps his voice plain.  Neutral.  “Alex’s with him.” That’s said to Aaron for the most part, though he only moves his head a little.  His eyes flicking to the right, then back to Lafayette.  

“Why?” Lafayette’s not sure who’s speaking.  It could be Aaron.  It could be him.  It could be Pierre, who’s drawn the doctor’s gaze and is starting to ask the adult questions.  The responsible questions.  The ones that someone should ask.  

Lafayette should be asking those questions.  What’s the status? How did they arrive? Where are they at now? Pre-surgery for what? What’s John’s blood type and does he need a donation? 

The doctor pauses for a moment.  Hesitates.  “He’s O+.  His friend, Alex? Is O+ as well and has already offered, but I’m hesitant to allow it considering his own well being could be at risk.”

His own well being.  Is it his blood?  Are they seriously going to deny him because—no.  No. Alex is hurt too. 

“How is he?” Pierre asks.  Lafayette mouth won’t work.  He’s suddenly feeling very tired, and he just wants to sit down.  Close his eyes.  Fall asleep.  His eyes aren’t working properly.  There’s white noise in his ears.  

It blocks out whatever the doctor was going to say.  It keeps Lafayette from hearing what he needs to hear.  What he needs to pay attention to.  He presses his hands to his eyes.  Madison’s right there.  Right in front of him.  He should be grateful.  He should be happy.  He.  He.  

He needs to snap out of it.  He needs to breathe.  He needs to accept that things don’t always work out.  He needs to hold on just a little longer.  

John’s been stabbed.  Twice.  One in his right shoulder blade.  One in his right arm.  He’s got a few cuts on his hands.  One near his elbow.  He’d been wearing his cuff.  The knife had caught the bulk of that slice—damaging it, but likely saving his life.  It kept the blade from tearing down his arm.  From making things so much worse.  

But there were still veins and arteries in the upper arm.  And while John’s wrist had stayed in tact, his bicep had a two inch hole in it.  

The story gets told whether Lafayette’s ready to hear it or not.  The man who’d stabbed John had been trying to kill him.  Madison knocked him over.  Beat him until he wasn’t moving anymore.  Until he’d lay a bloody mess on the ground.  Someone had called the police in the middle of it all. 

A bystander or a shop keep.   _ Someone.   _ The police came.  Finding Madison with his hands squeezing down around John’s arm.  Alex trying a makeshift tourniquet above Madison’s grip as they tried to get John to wake up.  __ Arrests were made, and  the police were going to need to talk to all three of them as soon as they were able. 

“He’d passed out…” Madison explained dully.  “Kept waking up and losing consciousness.  Alex...Alex didn’t want to leave him alone.  He went with him in the ambulance.  Road with him the whole way here.”  

Madison got a ride from an officer.  Had sat in the back, staring at the bars separating him from the outside world.  Asked questions about who he was.  What he’d been doing.  What had started the fight.  Why was he even out there at that time of night?  What were they  _ really  _ doing?  Just having dinner?  Yeah.  Okay. 

“There’s one more thing…” the doctor trails off.  Looking to Pierre as the voice of guidance.  The voice of reason.  As if Pierre had any say in John’s medical decisions.  But Pierre didn’t complain.  Played parent as well as anyone did.  He’d always been that role for Lafayette, and it seemed effortless for him to step into it now.  

“Yes?” he asks slowly.  

“John’s refusing any opiates.” Lafayette flinches.  Pierre’s lips press tight together.  “He’s in...a lot of pain.” 

“It’s his choice,” Lafayette chokes out.  God no.  God  _ no.   _ The doctor doesn’t look surprised.  Just looks resigned.  

“Okay...it’s his choice.  But NSAIDs aren’t going to be enough.  His heart is already under a lot of strain from the fight.  If it becomes too strained, he could go into cardiac arrest.” Cardiac arrest.  He could have a heart attack at barely nineteen years old, because someone stabbed him on his way home to a party celebrating his sobriety, and he refused to take drugs.  

Lafayette’s going to be sick.  

This isn’t fair.  

_ This isn’t fair. _

His godfather reaches a hand out and wraps cool fingers around his wrist.  Holding him in place.  Keeping him from crumbling.  “There are other options,” Pierre says. __ “There are other things that can be done.” 

“I’m...not entirely sure that such options would be in John’s best interests.” 

“Deep level sedation isn’t in anybody’s best interests,” Pierre replies sweetly.  “But it will keep him from being  _ aware _ of what’s going on.  It will keep him from knowing what’s happening.” 

Sedation.  He means coma though.  Right?  Lafayette hates the word.  Hates how it surges up and down his spinal column and wraps thick fingers around his heart.  Hates how it makes him tremble.  Makes him think of John lying too still on a hospital bed, looking like death.  “It won’t stop the pain,” the doctor explains slowly. 

“It’ll stop him from being consciously aware of it.  And right now—that’s what we’re trying to avoid.” 

“We’ll need his medical proxy to make that determination.” 

Oh.  Oh  _ fuck.  _  Lafayette’s fingers snap into fists.  Pierre pauses.  Hand reaching toward his cell phone as the words register.  His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and then they relax.  He takes a deep breath, and asks the question Lafayette already knows the answer to.  “Who is his medical proxy?” 

“His father,” Madison replies.  John never filled out any paperwork otherwise.  He hadn’t trusted Alex early on.  He’d just met Lafayette.  In lieu of filling in anything, the answer is always the closest family relative.  And John’s in no position to argue.  Lafayette feels like he can’t breathe, as Madison snarls out one last time, “It’s his fucking father.” 

For a few quiet moments, Lafayette thinks that will be the end of it.  They’ll let it go.  John will keep refusing opiates until he’s forced to capitulate by the hospital.  He’ll be told he doesn’t have the mental clarity to make that decision at this time.  That it’s for his own health that he accept the pain medication. 

“We...haven’t been able to get in touch with his father,” the doctor continues, though.  Slowly.  Tentatively.  Looking at Pierre almost nervously.  Even she must be able to tell that there’s a difference here.  That there’s a problem.  That from how everyone’s standing and behaving...something is wrong.  

“I’ll take care of it,” Pierre tells the doctor.  

Lafayette reaches for him.  “No.  No you can’t do this.  You can’t—” But for the first time in as far back as he could remember...Pierre steps away.  

He pulls out his phone.  Not meeting Lafayette’s eye as he starts tapping at the screen.  “How long will John be in surgery for?” he asks the doctor.  At least another four hours.  They need to make sure that his arteries and veins have closed and are healing.  That there will be no more internal bleeding.   “I’ll have an answer for you by the time he comes out of surgery.” 

“Pierre—” Lafayette is cut off.  One hand in the air.  A sharp look.  Pierre turns and he walks out of the hospital.  Lifting the phone to his ear.  The doors slide shut behind him.  And Lafayette wonders if he should have invited Pierre to America again after all.  It doesn’t seem worth it now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is an extremely unreliable narrator at the best of times, and at the worst of times (now) he's downright impossible to believe. 
> 
> Warnings for: body horror, illness, very very brief blink and you miss it suicide ideation

John had appendicitis when he was fifteen.  

He remembers the lead up to the hospital visit.  How he’d called in sick to school.  Exhaustion pulling him down to the point he had no desire to get out of bed.  He didn’t like to do that.  They always called to talk to an adult.  Make sure he had a real excuse not to be in school.  He needed to call his father on those days, and then his father would have to determine if it’d be worth giving him an excuse. 

He got to know his father’s secretary real well.  She’d pretend to be his mother and would tell the school he had a fever and needed to stay home.  But she always told his dad whenever he did.  And his dad always made him talk about it.  

John didn’t want to talk about it.  He just didn’t want to go to school.  He felt sick. Felt like he was going to throw up everything he ever ate.  And curling into a ball on his bed didn’t stop that.  He squinted at the wall and tried to go to sleep.  He swallowed antacids, and he tried to drink water. 

It didn’t help. 

He’d been throwing up for almost five hours by the time Alex knocked on his door.  A heavy handed smashing with the side of his fist that echoed through the apartment until John managed to knock a glass over by his bedside. It smashed against the ground, and less than a minute later...Alex had let himself in. 

“Fuck, you look terrible,” his only friend proclaimed.  Tip-toeing into the bedroom and squinting at John.  Pale light filtered in through the window and there was a clock somewhere that told the time.  John was too exhausted to try to find it. 

“Stomach bug…” John mumbled.  He wrapped his arms around his body and squeezed his eyes shut.  Everything hurt.  He just wanted to go to sleep.  He was so tired.  So very very tired.  

Without so much as a by your leave, Alex crawled into the bed behind him.  Wrapped his arms around John and snuggled in close.  “You’re  _ really _ burning up…” Alex told him stupidly.  John didn’t need the reminder.  Didn’t need to be told anything.  He understood just fine.  Had been feeling it all day. 

“Sleep…” he managed to get out.  He was not interested in talking.  He just wanted to sleep.  Hopefully Alex would understand that.  Would give him the chance to just doze.  And for a moment, John thought Alex really did understand.  His friend’s hands were cool against his skin, and they slipped under his shirt.  Chilling his chest.  It felt nice.  

“You missed a lot in school today,” Alex said.  Snuggling in close.  It felt good.  John liked it when Alex lay next to him.  Liked how comfortable it all was.  How after all this time there was a small little feeling of  _ home  _ that sank in whenever Alex was near.  Any other day his heart would beat faster.  He’d press back against Alex’s body in hopes of encouraging his touch.

Now, he just wants ice.  Cool ice.  Sinking into his body and freezing him whole.  He’d like that.  He’d really like that.  “Mary was going on and on in class.  Kept asking questions and bugging Mr. Trevor for the whole hour of Geometry.” 

Alex’s voice is nice.  Light.  High pitched.  Kind of accented.  John liked listening to it.  It was distracting.  Kept him from thinking too much on the pain and the struggle. And the... _ everything.   _ Alex kept rubbing his fingers against his chest.  That was good.  That felt good.  Good, until Alex pressed against his side, and agony burst through John’s body.  He flinched back, into his friend’s body. 

“John...John that’s your appendix.”  Alex rolled off the bed, and John’s body flopped backward.  He lay flat.  Looked up at the ceiling.  Stared at the popcorn pattern until Ned showed up.  Must have missed the phone call.  Missed Alex getting in trouble for skipping class.  School hadn’t been over when Alex came in.  He probably got grounded that day. 

He never told John one way or another. 

Ned Stevens was a good guy.  A couple of years older than them, taking classes at the local college for medicine.  He seems to genuinely like Alex.  Enjoys spending time with him in any case.  And he comes when he’s called. 

He came.

He came and he sat at John’s bedside, and he pressed his hands to John’s throat.  And he asked,  “John?  John, kiddo, it’s Ned.  Can you hear me?”  He tucked his arms around John’s body and picked him up.  One arm under his legs, the other under his shoulders.  He carried John until they got outside.  None of the neighbors questioned anything.  

John remembers how he was bundled in the back.  Alex holding out his arms for Ned to deposit John.  They rode to the hospital, and John floated for a time.  The fever had coated his senses and the surgery afterward left him feeling even worse than prior. 

Samantha came to see him.  He remembers that.  She came in and asked if he was all right, and kissed his cheek as he stared numbly up at her.  Alex had been there before, during, and after the whole experience.  He never let John go through a second of it alone. 

And he isn’t letting John go through it alone now. 

The doctors are prepping him for surgery, and Alex is not letting go of him now.  He holds his hand.  Squeezes it tight and doesn’t dare to let it go.  John has loved Alex since the first moment he sat across from him in the lunchroom.   _ Hey...let’s be friends.   _ He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop loving him. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Alex tells him.  Fingers tight around his palm.  “It’s going to be okay.”  John’s been sliding in and out of consciousness since the first moment the blade slipped into his arm.  He’s been barely cognizant since the ambulance pulled into the hospital.  The pain all encompassing.  The blood loss starting to be more than a little hard to overcome.  

John can’t speak.  He lost that ability sometime in the journey.  Words falter from his mouth like torn strips of candy.  He even tastes the bitter sweetness of taffy turned sour.  Alex rubs his fingers over John’s knuckles.  He’s trembling.  Badly.  “It’s going to be okay,” Alex repeats. 

John closes his eyes.  He doesn’t really think that things are going to be okay.  His back is burning unlike anything he’s ever felt before.  His arm...he can’t feel his arm.  Someone is mentioning nerves and bone fragments.  There could be a piece of metal somewhere inside.  Dug deep into his scapula.   They need to do an x-ray.  But first they have to stop him from bleeding out. 

There are arteries in the arm.  

And if there’s one thing that John’s always excelled at, it’s being unlucky. 

Alex kisses his fingers.  Cold hands around heated flesh.  Lips soft and gentle.  He’s crying.  But he’s here.  And he’s trying to be good.  Trying to do what John wants.  John tries to open his eyes.  Promise him that it’s going to be all right.  But he can’t.  It’s so much easier to just lay still. 

Run like water over stone.  Drip down the drain.  Lost and forgotten about. 

“John?” Alex whispers against his hand. 

***

John's mother used to spit at hospitals when they drove past them.  He remembers sitting in the front-seat of her car,  _ buckle up piqueño,  _ and how she'd seethe about doctors and nurses.  They don't do things the right way.  They always charge you an endless amount of money.   _ Don't worry, mijo, you don't have to go there.  _  His dad used to grumble about her peculiarities.  Shake his head and tell her she was being stupid. 

When he was four, he sat on the front steps of the Big House.  It was the red one in South Carolina.  With the sprawling fields and the barn.  He used to sit on those steps a lot.  Playing with chalk and drawing rainbows and sunflowers on the drive.  When he was done, Maria would help him wash away the chalk.  They'd aim the hose at the drawings, and spray until the last traces of color disappeared amongst the grass. 

His parents were arguing inside.  He remembers the argument, because he was wearing his white shorts that day.  White shorts and red-collared shirt.  The collar scratched into his throat, and he kicked his feet in the air as he sat on the steps.  They were yelling louder and louder, and John didn't like listening to them yelling. 

He pushed himself up and he looked for his box of chalk in the shed.  For a ball he could play with.  A tree to climb.  He can't remember just how it happened.  But he remembers running.  Running about the grass and giggling.  Playing some kind of imaginary game that likely made sense to him at the time, but didn't make any sense now.

John hadn't put the hose back properly from the last time he sprayed the driveway, and it lay across the lawn like a long snake.  He hadn't been paying attention, and he tripped.  Falling and smearing mud along his white shorts.  Caking his hands. 

The front door slammed open, and John burst into tears.  He held out his hand and cried about how it was an accident.  He didn't mean to.  He was sorry.  His father didn't seem to notice.  He didn't notice the mud or the dirt or the stained white shorts that were so obviously ruined.  He just reached down and picked John up. 

Rocked him gently on his hip, and cupped the back of his head.  Kissing his brow.  "You're all right, Jackie.  You're all right." John stared at his father.  Tears drying as he settled against the man's body.  Tentatively hugging his arms around his father's neck as he was carried to the garage. 

The car door opened, and his dad strapped him into his car seat.  Smiling at him and nodding his head.  "You're a big boy, aren't you?  Aren't going to need this soon."  John nodded back.   _ Uh-huh.  Uh-huh. _  He moved his arms to help with the straps, and his dad paused.  Looking at his filthy fingers.  He stepped away from the car.

Thick summer heat rising humidly around them.  John sat still.  Waiting and hopeful.  Confused.  He felt tears starting to form again, but his dad came back eventually.  Came back with baby wipes from the kiddy case, and with an intent to clean.  He was gentle.  Smiling and teasing as he washed John's fingers, and John marveled at his father. 

He wondered if they could do this every day.

His dad closed the car door, and heat built in the car once more.  But it was only temporary.  Eventually his father sat behind the wheel and began backing out of the garage.  John's mother was there.  Dad slammed on the breaks as Mom slapped her hands against the back of the car.

John twisted in his car seat, but he couldn't see her very well.  Could just hear her voice as it started shrieking.  His father cursed and shifted the car.  "You will not take my son to be poisoned!" Mom shouted

"Ma-ma-madre-ma--" John wriggled in his seat.  Scared as he tried to understand what was happening.

She was still yelling.  Dad yelled back.  Mom stepped around the car and went to go for John's car door, but Dad took the opportunity to hit the reverse as fast as he could.  The car jolted and John screamed.  Thrown forward in his straps as the car flew backwards down the drive.  Leaving Mom behind as Dad whipped the car in a circle.  Put them in drive, and took off down the road.

He can still remember how his mother screamed his name as they left the front gates.  How his collar had dug in even worse after the rough handling.  How he started crying again.  Big fat tears that slid down his face.  John tried covering his eyes with his hands, but they smelled like alcohol and he didn't like them so close to his nose.

Dad didn't say anything for a long while.  Just kept driving.  Hands tight on the steering wheel.  When he finally  _ did  _ talk, he started at a red light.  While the car was idling, waiting for it to change.  "I know you're scared Jackie, but this is supposed to be good for you."

John tried to stop crying.  But he wanted another hug.  He wanted his mom.  He's never been alone like this with his dad, and the rarity was overshadowed by the panic from before.  He tried to blot out the tears.  But he couldn't manage it.  He just kept crying. 

"Hey," Dad turned around.  One hand on the steering wheel, one hand reaching out to rest on John's knee.  "How about we get some ice cream after okay?"

John gulped back air.  He forced himself to nod.  And then the light turned green and his father turned back around and started driving again.  They drove for a long time.  Eventually the tears stopped.  John pressed his thumb into his mouth, and wished he had his blanket or Elle.  He'd really have liked something to hold.

They pulled into the hospital parking lot. 

Dad opened the door to the car.  Walked around.  He opened the door to John's side, and unstrapped him.  Picked him up and held him.  John held him back.  Tears threatening to come back in a resurgence of his earlier tantrum.  He sniffles.  "Good boy," Dad told him.  "Brave boy.  Going to school this fall...getting so big..."

He walked John inside, and they sat together in the waiting room.  John curled up in his father's lap.  His head pressed against his shoulder.  He cried a little more.  But Dad just rocked him.  Pet his hair.  Called him  _ Mijo.  _  Dad never called him  _ Mijo.  _

The nurse called them back, and Dad carried him down the halls lined with posters and pictures of nature.  The smell of the hospital made John's nose hairs tingle.  And he sniffled louder as he tried to hide in the folds of his father's shirt.  Dad inspected the room they were led in, and then settled down.  Sitting on the exam table, wax paper squelching beneath him. 

John wrapped his legs around his father's waist and refused to look up.  Just hugged tighter and hoped this was going to be over.  They could leave soon.  They could go home, and he could be with Mom, and this whole day could be over.

The doctor eventually came.

"So! Starting school soon hmm?" he asked.  Dad talked to the man.  Discussed things John didn't understand until years later.  Long words that didn't make any sense.  Paperwork that needed to be filled out.  Dad pried John's arms from around his neck and turned him to sit and face the doctor.  Held him still as the doctor and his nurse pulled a cart over.

There was a tray full of syringes on the cart.  Vials set just beside.  John squirmed in his father's lap.  He tried pulling back, but his father held him close.  "Be brave, Jackie.  Be brave and we'll get ice cream later.  Okay?  You like ice cream don't you?"

"He might get a little nauseous when we're done," the doctor cautioned.

"I'm getting him ice cream after," his dad insisted.  "He deserves ice cream."

John didn't want ice cream.  He didn't want this.  The doctor nodded though.  Picked up the first syringe, and prepped it.  John's arm was taken up and he howled.  Howled and screamed and kicked and fought and he understood why his mom had tried so hard. 

He thrashed.  Kicking his father and the doctor.  Jerking this way and that.  Screaming louder and louder until he ran out of breath.  His dad didn't tell him to shut up.  Didn't tell him to be quiet.  Just held him.  Kept him still as the first injection came.  And all the ones that came afterward.

His arm burned.  It hadn't been  _ just a little pinch.  _  John imagined for years that he could feel the vaccines sliding through his blood stream.  He could feel each vial's contents as they circulated through him.  He even told the kids at school that.  He told them that he knew where the vaccines were that day.  In his fingers.  In his toes.  One day he's going to carve them out.

John screamed and sobbed all through the process.  Even when it was over and all he needed to do was go home.  He kept crying.  His dad thanked the doctor.  Signed the paperwork.  Got a copy to give to the school.

He carried John to the car.  Set him in his car seat and did up the straps.  Kissed John on the brow.  "Good boy, Jackie.  Good boy." 

Dad walked back to the driver's side.  Turned the key in the ignition and took a deep breath.  Then he drove John to the ice cream store and bought John a scoop of vanilla and a scoop of chocolate.  Rainbow sprinkles too.  "You like those the best right?"  Dad asked as he handed over the prize.

No answer would come.  John wiped at his eyes and he tried to eat the ice cream.  But his arm hurt too much, and his stomach twisted about.  He sniffled again and again, and eventually he gave up.  Curling over and trying very hard to not touch the power ranger bandaids that coat the space between shoulder and elbow.

"Your mother just didn't understand," Dad tells him.  "Vaccines are complicated, but they're not poison."  John didn't care then, and he never appreciated the memory.  Looking back on it with fresh perspective had lessened the immediate feelings of hatred that generally came so naturally for John.  But not by much.  "I'm just trying to do what's best for you."

He looked at John helplessly, and John promptly threw up all over his father's shoes.  He thinks he said sorry.  But of everything that happened that day...that's the one thing he can't remember.

***

A nurse comes over and tells Alex that he needs to go.  He needs to leave now.  John needs to go into surgery, and Alex can't stay.  “Don’t...don’t…” John can’t get out the words.  Alex nods his head, though.  Nods his head and squeezes his hand one final time. 

“Don’t give him any opiates,”  the best friend John’s ever had insists.  John wonders if he’ll feel it if they do.  If he’ll feel the burn of it as it slides through his body.  No.  He doesn’t need to wonder.  He knows.  He knows he’ll feel it.  He’ll feel it like a beg for more.  Like a desperate scramble to please, just a little.  Just to take the edge off.  Please.  

_ I just want it to stop.  _

“We won’t,” the nurse replies gently.  She looks between Alex and John.  “You have some friends waiting outside for you,” she tells them.  “They’re very worried about you.” 

_ Laf.  _

_ Lafayette.   _ Lafayette who had been sitting at home thinking they were having a good time.  Who has given so much to him.  Who has done more than any sane man would.  Who opened his heart and home.  Who gave him fencing.  Who gave him a life John thought he’d never be able to have.  

Tears prick at his eyes.  He feels like he’s been crying for years.  Falling apart at the seams.  A patchwork quilt made up of so many different moments, and each one of them were tied together with brittle thread.  Fraying and breaking.  Snapping along corners and forming holes in the fabric of his reality. 

He squeezes his eyes shut.  Pain washes over his body in another insistent wave.  He wants to see him.  He wants to go home.  Lay in his bed with their cuffs in place.  Breathing in.  Breathing out.  Safe and secure.  Neither one of them broken down by the chaos that made up their lives.  He just wants to find a little bit of peace.  A little bit of clarity. 

He just wants--

“Who’s here?” Alex asks. 

“The friend who came in with you, as well as two young black men,” Lafayette and Aaron both.  John grits his teeth.  He’d forgotten about Aaron.  How could he have forgotten about-- “And an older man.  Middle-eastern looking--”

“Pierre,” John breathes out.  Oh God.  What was  _ he  _ doing here?  It was too early.  He couldn’t have flown in since the attack.  So he’d already been here.  Why?

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Alex whispers.  Nurses are filling the room and getting John ready for transport.  “He wanted to surprise you.  To celebrate...your...it’s been six months.”   

Oh God.  Six months since he stopped.  Six months since he really and truly stopped.  Since he focused on doing this right.  Since he dedicated himself to this process.  Since he found a life and tried reaching for it.  Six months of promises.  Of whispered phone conversations.  Of feeling support from the only people in the world who’ve ever seemed to care if he needed help. 

“Don’t let them--”

“I won’t.  I promise,” Alex tells John.  He leans close and kisses John’s brow.  Sealing his vow for all time.  “I promise.  Just please...Please John.  Be okay.  You’re going to be okay.” 

The table John’s on starts to move.  He’s pushed into a different room.  There are bright lights everywhere, and his head spins.  He doesn’t feel good.  Someone says something about needing a blood transfusion, and that’s funny.  That’s funny.  He just tested for that.  None of his friends could help him with that.  

A mask is put over John’s face.  It’s to help him...he can’t remember what it’s supposed to help him with. 

His eyes start to close.  Something about the number ten. 

He’s supposed to be….

Counting?

He doesn’t know.

***

They tell John after, that the surgery went well.  They repaired the arterial damage—the blade had nicked it just right.  They fixed the vascular damage.  They sewed his skin back in place.  They pieced him together.  Re-tying the pieces of his quilt so he can weather through another storm.  Another beating. 

Humpty dumpty sat on a wall.  

Humpty dumpty had a great fall.

And all the King’s horses and all the King’s men

Sometimes they  _ can  _ piece Humpty back together again.

John doesn’t remember the surgery.  He doesn’t remember how his heart had started going into cardiac arrest.  How the doctors had made a note in his file saying that he had an arrhythmia and it should be watched for future failings.  How his lungs were depressed for an extended period of time, and didn’t draw air properly. 

How one of his ribs  _ had  _ started to press into his lung wall.  How in the middle of trying to fix his arm and retrieve the piece of metal in his back, they also needed to fix his rib so he didn’t have an even bigger problem to deal with.  

John only remembers blinking at the ceiling.  Feeling as if his very body were on fire.  Arm screaming in agony.  Back howling in protest.  Opening his mouth and making noises he’s never made before.  He remembers someone sobbing his name.  Holding him down.  

He remembers thrashing.  Arching his back and collapsing his spine.  He remembers agony.  Hell on earth.  Bees buzzing beneath his skin, but it’s not morphine and it’s nothing he can name.  And for a moment he thinks it’s the vaccines.  The poison in his blood that his mom had screamed and cried and begged for his father not to give him. 

Which is stupid.

But he thinks it anyway.  And it doesn’t help calm him down. 

He remembers the moment he realized Lafayette was in the room.  Holding him.  Whispering to him.  Telling him he was there.  John remembers the moment his brain kicked in, and he understood that the man he fell in love with was with him.  On the bed.  Keeping him from flying apart at the seams.  Cuddling him like all his patchwork vulgarity actually amount to a product worth having.  Lafayette held John close.  And he didn’t let him him go for anything.  

John remembers those moments.  He remembers them as the only part of his early hospital experience.  Because the words fall away.  The intentions disappear.  He existed in nightmares.  Unable to go to sleep as the pain was too blinding.  

Unable to speak or do anything.  His arm and back and lungs tearing him apart.  He remembers rambling at one point.  Leaning his sweat soaked brow against someone’s chest and begging,  “Cut it off.  Cut it off.  Cut off.” 

It’s the only thought that makes sense.  It’s the only thing that could make this better.  He doesn’t want it.  He wants it gone.  Just cut off the infected flesh and save what remains.  Please.  They do that in wars, don’t they?  Because it’s not worth keeping it if the pain’s like this.  It’s not worth it if it keeps going.  

“That won’t help,” someone explains pragmatically.  

_ Well fuck you too.   _

Someone rocks him.  

Someone holds him.  

He’s lifted up.  He’s settled down.  Blood is drawn.  Blood is given.  His world is a series of events that make no sense and form no narrative.  They are moments in time.  Rain on a window pane.  Sliding into oblivion and fading away.  Leaving only streaks to show their progress.  

John can’t breathe.  

The pain hits a crescendo.  Someone’s arguing.  There are voices everywhere.  His mother used to sing to him late at night.  Tell him time and again that he was going to be all right.  He was going to be fine.  Don’t be scared.  She’ll be there.  

She’s not there.  She left and she never came back.  She promised she’d come back and she  _ left.   _

He sees his father out of the corner of his eye.  He screams breathlessly.  Can’t form words anymore.  He’s lost all ability to speak.  His voice doesn’t work.  It’s been torn and fragmented.  A faded sound.  Stretched air.  Pulling thin.  There’s poison in his blood and he can’t get it out. 

Someone starts shouting.  It’s not him.  His father leaves.  The door closes.  Voices.  Voices everywhere.  He just wants to be left alone.  Make it stop.  Make it stop.  Make it stop.  

When he was a child he thought he’d die in the dark.  Buried alive.  Alone where no one could see him.  He didn’t expect to see sunlight again.  The dream happens from time to time.  An all encompassing darkness that doesn’t end.  A box that holds him in place.  That locks him down.  That keeps him from moving.  From being found.  

“John...the morphine will help,” someone tells him.  

No.  No.  No.  No.  No.  

With each ‘no’ it’s a little harder to  _ say _ ‘no.’ A little harder to keep it up.  He tries.  He tries, but he can’t manage it.  Can’t get the words out completely.  He cries.  Sobs.  Tries to figure out what he should be doing.  What he should be saying.  He can’t respond.  He can’t react.  

They don’t understand.  He’d been taking thirty-two pills a day.  He’d been so close to tipping into something other than pills.  So close to trying something harder.  Something faster.  Something that’d make it stop so much quicker.  

Don’t give him morphine.  Don’t give him something sweeter.  Don’t give him something stronger.  Something he wanted.  Something he’d been playing with.  Something he been fighting against.  Please.  Don’t start him over again.  

Don’t make him fight this one last time.  

The pain surges.  

John loses his ability to think.  To process.  To reason.  He thrashes against the arms that hold him.  He jerks violently away from anyone who comes near.  He chokes on air.  He feels his chest start aching worse than ever before.  

His lungs used to hurt.  A lot.  His ribs squeezed them too tight.  They never quite filled up with air properly.  

There’s a page on WebMD that he used to haunt himself by reading.  He’d read it over and over.  These are the side effects of addiction.  If he managed to not have one, he’d congratulate himself.  He wasn’t an addict.  He wasn’t.  He just.  

Respiratory depression.  

It’s a common side effect.  

It makes things so much worse.  

Someone comes by.  They put another mask on his face.  It pushes air into his nose.  His mouth.  He lets his eyes roll back and he drifts.  He rides the waves of pain like a surfer in a big storm.  Trying to chase the swell.  Trying to make it through the tube.  

He’s a puppet on strings made of barbed wide.  Arms and legs moved by the whims of others.  Reactions carefully monitored and controlled.  There’s a chart.  There are doctors.  There are people he can’t recognize.  

His father floats across his field of view.  A spectre.  A nightmare.  A boogeyman back from the past.  Invading his reality and warping his present.  He cannot scream.  He cannot escape.  He’s lying still.  Flayed out on a table.  Ready for the vultures to descend and pick his skin from his bones.  

It cannot possibly hurt worse than this.  

Lafayette whispers to him in French.  Tells him words John can’t understand.  Creates sentences that John cannot fathom.  John doesn’t need to fathom.  He just needs to follow the trail.  Follow the thread and watch it lead him down the path of least resistance.  Maybe just maybe he can sew himself back together. 

He’s told later, that by the time someone’s decided to heavily sedate him (apparently being in a medically induced comas were not the same thing) until the majority of the pain has subsided, it had only been one day.  

It felt so much longer than that.


	6. Chapter 6

Henry Laurens stands nearly six foot three.  Compared to his father, John's practically diminutive.  Alex is almost a full foot smaller than Henry, and it shows.  He has to arch his neck up to even look the man in the eye.  It doesn't stop him from barricading the way to John's hospital room.  From grinding his teeth so loud they pop.  For glaring at Henry as though he were fully prepared to wage war right here in this hallway.  Fingers clenched tight and muscles coiled for action.

Similarly as affected is Henry himself.  Who cannot possibly hope to explain away the look of utter loathing on his face.  He's scowling at Alex with the same expression one usually reserves for a sink full water, hiding food coated dishes and access to the strainer.

The doctor stands awkwardly between them both.  Clearly trying to work out exactly who she should be referring her comments to.  The camps are clear.  The lines are drawn in the sand.  There's a mark on the floor, separating the tiles between Alex and Henry.  It measures exactly one foot.  And it's the only space either have conceded so far.

Like it or not, Lafayette seethes,  Henry has the upper-hand.

He's not used it yet.  Lafayette can see Pierre out of the corner of his eye.  Calculating, planning, re-evaluating their situation with the kind of brilliance that Lafayette's known all his life.  Unlike Henry, Pierre has little trouble retaining a sense of mature calm.  His expression is unremarkable.  Placidly civil.

He's known this was likely to happen since the moment they realized John's health insurance information still lurked under his father's name.  He's not twenty-six.  He's still covered by his father, and so, his father still holds the key to this particular part of John's current predicament.  Lafayette casts a glance awkwardly toward John's room.  Even though the doctors have insisted that there's nothing more that he can do right now, leaving John alone feels like a betrayal.

Each second that passes is one more notch against him.  One more hopelessly awful moment he's going to need to explain.  Somehow.

He doesn't know how.

Henry breaks the silence first.  Cuts through the tension with words sharp and visceral.  They send spikes of agitation through Lafayette's back.  His skin prickles.  Hives forming by proximity alone.  "I see you're still here," Henry begins.

Alex's chin goes up.  His body is a lightening rod of hostility.  He's fighting back everything he has.  Doing his best to remain calm.  Failing ever so slightly.

Lafayette can see how this exchange would have happened just last year.  Can see how Alex and Henry would have stood in front of each other.  Alex spewing secrets he had no business sharing.  Hate and vitriol driving him forward as common sense fled the scene of the crime.  Lafayette had always understood Alex's motivations.  His reasoning.  (Or lack thereof).  But this is the first time he's truly empathized on a level that cannot be ignored.

While Alex still had no business stepping in where John did not want him to tread, Henry Laurens remained the same repugnant creature that Alex loathed with ever fiber of his being.

Surprisingly, Alex keeps his naturally verbose self to a short: "Yes." His hands shake hard.  Bruises bleaching themselves green the longer he keeps his skin pulled in tight.  Alex had made John a promise.  Not to do anything to make matters worse between him and his father.  Not to get in the way or keep John from finding whatever bit of peace he wanted to find.

Alex made John that promise, and here in the face of a man no one truly expected he'd see again, Alex is somehow managing to keep that promise.

For now.  Henry's lips curl.  His expression is a vengeful parody of caring.  Mouth starting to twist into whatever hissing anecdote he felt appropriate, Henry never gets the chance to eviscerate Alexander Hamilton.  Never gets the chance to tear into him as he must have wanted to all those months ago.

Instead, Pierre steps forward.  "You are Mr.  Laurens, if I am not mistaken?" he asks.  Of course he's not mistaken.  But he asks it anyway.  Asks it, and startles the man from his path.  Makes him actually lean back and turn to re-evaluate Pierre in full.

Pierre is the only real adult of their group, and Henry's quick to discard the rest of them.  He hadn't so much as paused when he'd first stepped into the hospital.  Hadn't glanced over Madison, Mulligan, or Burr with anything close to interest.  He'd barely even noted Lafayette's presence.  Alex had been his focus then, and still is now for the most part.  Even distracted by Pierre's calming question, he continues glancing at Alex.

Lafayette wouldn't be surprised if the man expected Alex to attack him the moment his guard was down.  Frankly, Lafayette wanted to do much the same.

But Alex stays still.  He keeps his hands clenched at his sides and he doesn't say or do anything.  If nothing else, he keeps surprisingly quiet.  Keeps his attention focused on what's in front of him.  No more.  No less.  He doesn't waiver.  But he doesn't instigate.

He's keeping himself in check.

Good boy.

Pierre steps forward.  Gets in close, and gently moves around Alex.  It has the unintentional side effect of making Henry step back a touch, but that's fine.  Pierre hardly seems bothered by the change of pace.  Lafayette reaches for Alex's arm.  Gently guides him back as well.  Is pleasantly surprised when Alex doesn’t fight him on it.  When he goes.  Steps backward until he's in line with Lafayette.  Eyes never leaving Henry's face.

Not once.

"Who are you?" Henry asks Pierre shortly.

"My name is Pierre David, I had the privilege of meeting your son several months ago.  He's a bright boy, I'm so glad to finally meet you.  Though I admit the circumstances could be better." He holds out his hand, and smiles wide.

Manners have been inbred into Henry Laurens.  Even if he doesn't seem to possess the ability to treat his family right, he cannot shake decency from his persona.  A hand is held out, a hand is shaken.  It's as simple as that.  He shakes Pierre's hand with wide eyes and a slightly dumbfounded expression that is like blood in the water.

Lafayette's been on the receiving end of Pierre's lectures more than once.  He's needed to fight to negotiate the terms of his grounding, punishments, rewards, and privileges.  He's needed to orchestrate an argument every day of his life, because if he didn't—Pierre would make it clear that he didn't deserve what he had.

Life's not going to be easy for you just because you want it to be easy.  You need to understand how to get what you want.  Then get it.

Lafayette could never claim to be particularly clever at this type of political wrangling.  It's a flare of charisma and manipulation that Lafayette never quite mastered the ability to maneuver appropriately.  He has no trouble charming mindless miscreants here or there.  He can take the place as a hero or a villain in any of their storybooks until they dance to the tune of his drum.

But for those he truly despises, Lafayette's failed utterly at keeping his own personal feelings in check.  Failed at maintaining the infinitely more important separation of emotion and realism.  He strikes without thinking.  He hurts without meaning to.  And at the end of the day, the results are never quite what he expects.

Never quite what he'd been going for in the first place.

Pierre stands before Henry Laurens as though he were meeting a blank slate.  A whiteboard waiting to be filled.  With expo marker in hand, Pierre sketches his tones and opinions into place.  He colors his words.  He shapes his tone of voice.  He becomes a man Henry Laurens does not despise, and he breaks bread with an enemy Lafayette loathes just as viscerally as Alex.

There's no warning before Pierre lands his final blow.  But Lafayette had suspicions from the moment Pierre stepped forward.  From the moment he made his assertions that he wasn't going to enjoy how this matter is resolved.  "There are quite a lot of emotions occurring at this time, and I believe that we should discuss matters such as your son's well being...away from children who do not fully understand the difficult decisions that must be made."

Lafayette's right.

He doesn't like it.

Neither does Alex.  "What did you say?" It's the reaction Lafayette's almost certain Pierre wanted.  Playing Alex's hatred against Henry.  Casting Pierre as an ally rather than another enemy.  It works far too well.  Henry practically grins.  Enjoying the feeling of power twisting about.  Knowing that he controls who can be near John.  Knowing that he makes the final choices here.  No one else.

Regardless of their friendship with John.  Regardless of John's desires.

John, as they've been reminded time and time again tonight, is insensible.  And he's not capable of making medical decisions for himself.  And while Alex had championed for John throughout his ride to the hospital, now that matters of insurance and money were involved, Alex's words held little weight.

Henry made the decisions now.  And if Henry chose not to listen to them, not to do as John asked, then there was little anyone could do.  They needed Henry to be on their side, much as Lafayette hated the mere thought of it.  They needed someone who could play devil's advocate.  And potentially, someone who could get Henry to make the right choices.

The doctor awkwardly tells them there is an office they can use to discuss John's case, and Pierre graciously bows his head a little.  Motions with his hand for Henry to lead.  Plays second fiddle.  Adulating and respectful.  Perfectly poised and kind.

"Take a walk," he tells Lafayette, meeting his eyes for a brief moment, before following Henry down the hall and into whichever room the doctor chose for their conference.

Lafayette watches as they leave.  Vaguely aware of the fact that Alex is all but throwing a fit beside him.  Aaron's stepped forward, is hastily telling Alex to calm down.  It's for the best.  It'll work out.  Mulligan quickly explaining that Pierre wouldn't let anything bad happen to John.  They need to trust him.

They have to trust him.

Lafayette doesn't have that problem.  He does trust his godfather.  Trusts him more than any man alive.  And he trusts him enough to do exactly as he says.  He turns on his heel, and he goes for a walk.

He hears someone call his name, but he doesn't stop.  Doesn't slow his feet or his progress.  He walks until he reaches the doors of the hospital, and then he steps outside.  His phone rings almost immediately.  He glances at the screen.

Pierre.

For a man who lives on his cell-phone, calling someone without looking at the screen remain one of his least impressive skills.  Still. It's effective.  Lafayette taps the volume button as high as it will go, turns his own microphone on mute, and ignores the sound of fabric.  The shifting that occurs naturally when a phone is left to shift about in a pocket during a conversation.

The doctor introduces herself again, asks Henry to take a seat.  She starts going over John's chart.  Explaining the damage to his arm.  The surgery repaired the break to his veins, and it supported the artery that had been nicked every so slightly.  She discusses the internal bleeding.  How they drained the area in John's arm, but they'll need to keep a close eye on it in case it got worse.

She pauses for a moment.  Hesitating before moving on.  Giving room for Henry to ask any questions, which he doesn't, or provide any commentary, which he does.  "His arm is the only thing that's hurt?"

"His back as well," she continues.  This time she has less to say.  While the wound on his back was smaller in diameter, it was deeper.  Lafayette can hear the sound of plastic sheets being moved.  He tries to imagine the x-ray.  Tries to get an idea of what she's looking at.  The blade had left an impression on John's scapula.  The muscles tore around it.  While no arteries or veins had been struck, he had muscle damage that would need to be addressed at some point during the healing process.

Which, was never going to happen unless they managed his pain now.  Then, she explained John's treatment thus far.  "Why is he refusing opiates?" Henry asked slowly.  Lafayette's fingers tighten around the phone.  He holds his breath.

"I'm afraid that may be my fault," Pierre cuts in.  Henry asks a question, one that's muffled around the sound of Pierre moving.  His body shifting too much for the phone be able to pick up anything more than a few garbled words.  Lafayette presses his phone closer to his ear.  Struggling to pick up anything at all.  Even the slightest hint that there could be more.  "—coach...he...son...and... private lessons." The shifting stops.

Far more clearly, Lafayette can hear Pierre continue, "During one such lesson, I introduced him to a young man who was struggling with an opiate addiction.  They were fencing partners for several weeks and I do believe that they spoke about the addiction to some length.  As well as how easy it is to become addicted.  It's a fear that I believe has solidified in young John.  He...will not be swayed on this matter."

"Where's this friend now?" Henry asked.

"He suffered through an overdose and is with his family.  John was deeply concerned.  Still is."

"My son's refusing opiates when he's in agony because he had a  _ friend?" _

"He's a very empathetic person."

Henry makes a noise in the back of his throat.  Something straining and awful.  He sounds so disgusted Lafayette thinks he might actually be sick.  The man is all but hacking.  There's more movement.  A chair being rolled back.  Hands being placed on a desk.  John's father announces, "This is absurd."

Lafayette's godfather is not in the mood.  "Perhaps.  But considering the over prescription of opiates in this country, it's not an unreasonable request.  There are methods of reducing John's pain level without resorting to opiates.  As there are also methods of maintaining his safety and well being.  At the end of the day, however, he's a legal adult.  It's his choice, and it's a choice that he's allowed to make seeing as how it's his body."

There's silence on the other end.  Lafayette can't hear anything.  Not movement.  Not breathing.  Not the quiet whispered words of a dissenter.  An ambulance drives past Lafayette.  Lights flickering and direction unimpeded.  He walks further around the building.  Distancing himself from the frantic sounds of paramedics throwing open doors and gurneys clanking out of vehicles.

"How bad is the pain?" Henry asks.  It's a question that Lafayette didn't truly expect him to make.

For all that John rarely speaks about his father, the impression he cast had been of a man that would have preferred he'd died in the womb than ever take breath.  To ever stain the earth with the mongrel mix of races that left John an outcast in his own family.  Lafayette never truly considered that the man thought well of John.  Not even to the extent that he'd care how John felt about anything at all.

Fathers who beat their children for daring to not be heterosexual hardly seemed like prime contenders for parent of the year.  Though, apparently, such men  _ were _ capable of exhibiting some form of consideration.  He'd come to the hospital, after all.  He'd appeared in person rather than just providing insurance information over the phone.  He'd asked after John's well being.

As if that makes it better.  As if he's making up for lost time.

Lafayette hates him for it.

Slowly, the doctor starts speaking.  As if she believes she'll be interrupted any moment.  Lafayette can't even blame her.  Considering she's standing in a room with those two.  "He's...in a great deal of pain," she says.  "Physiologically, it's left him delirious, his blood pressure is starting to become alarming, and his breathing is a concern.  While the injury itself isn't life threatening, at this rate there is a possibility that he could suffer cardiac arrest from the strain."

Lafayette knew this.  He did.  He knew that information and he was fully aware of what it meant exactly.  However, it didn't change how it made him feel.  How hearing the words made his own heart clench tight.  How his own breathing felt depressed.  Destabilized.  Off kilter.  His body starts swaying a little.  Knees shaking.

They almost give out beneath him, but an arm is suddenly wrapped around his waist.  Hoisting him upright and hauling him to a stone wall that wraps around a mulch covered garden.  Hercules.  He's giving Lafayette the most unimpressed look Lafayette's ever seen, and he doesn't even appear particularly bothered by Lafayette's dull response.  In fact, he just sets Lafayette down, plucks the phone from his hand, and taps the speaker button.

Lafayette can't even think to stop him.  Can just sit there, lips pressed together as Henry starts insisting that those are all valid reasons that John should receive the opiates that John's so desperately fighting against receiving.

With each word, Lafayette feels like they're losing this fight.  Like they're going to be forced into a scenario where John's going to have the drugs forcibly injected into him.  Even though he's been fighting so hard for this.  Even though he's done so well.

And shamefully, a part of Lafayette entertains that notion.  Entertains the notion that Henry is right.  That John's in agony.  He's at risk of dying because he's in so much pain it's knocking his body out of order.  They've proven that they can kick the habit.  And sure, it hasn't been too many months since John's officially been clean, but that doesn't mean much in the long run.  Does it?

It's not like John's going to be taking morphine every day for the rest of his life to manage this pain.  A few days.  A week tops.  Then they can cut him back.  Keep him on a strict NSAID regimen.  Hell, he's in a hospital, if he does start having trouble, then they're far more equipped to manage any withdrawal or addict behavior that John may develop.

At least John won't be dead.  At least he won't have died to prove a point.  That he doesn't need to take drugs anymore.  That he can manage without them.  At least...at least...

But it's John's choice.

That one thought circles non-stop through Lafayette's brain.  It's John's choice, and therefore...it's out of their hands.  No one would blame John for choosing the relief.  Not even Pierre.  Not a single one of them would have thought anything of it.  This wasn’t addict seeking behavior.  He hadn't intended to get stabbed.  It's not his fault.

But John made the choice not to use any opiates at all.  He made that decision.  And the moment he did...their decisions didn't matter.

Lafayette hates that.  Hates everything about that.  Feels compelled to be sick right here on this sidewalk just thinking about it.  Wonders, again, if somehow this is his fault.  If he's caused this.  If his insistence on getting John clean had somehow warped his perception of approval to the point that John feels he has to take it to this level.

The tired refrain it's your fault, it's all your fault, it's your fault, continues just as powerfully as it’s ever been.   _ It's John's choice, but it's his fault.  _  The two sliding into a perfect call and response.  Effortlessly happy.  Endlessly pleased.  Lafayette squeezes his eyes together.

Hercules rests a hand on the back of his neck and squeezes.  There's nothing more that Lafayette can do here.  He can't fix this.  He can't change anything.  He's caused this mess.  Him and his endless bad decisions that never seem to be able to stop.  He's caused this and he's made it so that it's never going to get better.

John's going to die and its—

His cheek explodes with sharp pain.  Tears well in his eyes on instinct.  He turns, blinks at Hercules.  Blinks at the man's hand where it's still raised, fully prepared to slap him again.  "Take a fucking breath.  And chill out."

What a thing to say.  What a horrible thing to say.  Hercules waves the phone in front of Lafayette's face, and he narrows his eyes at it.  Stares at it as more words start coming over the speaker.  As the discussion continues taking place.  Pierre's not done yet.  Not by a long shot.

Continuing his conversation not fit for children to hear.

Well.  Pierre was right.  Lafayette wasn't fit to hear it.  He's already worked himself up into a spiral, and he can't imagine what it would have been like listening to it in person.

"There are alternative methods to opiates that can be quite successful," Pierre says calmly.  He's unaffected by emotion.  He's incapable of letting his personal feelings cloud his judgment.  He's spent his life managing one crisis after another.  He keeps doing it now.

"Like what?" Henry seethes.

"Novocain can numb the muscles and surrounding area around the wounds.  Sedation can decrease the risk of John consciously being aware of the pain.  NSAIDs can take the edge off, and Celebrex can be used to decrease the swelling in the affected area.  Less swelling, less pressure on his nerves, reduced pain.  It's pain management, and this is a temporary situation.  Once the wounds start healing naturally on their own, the pain will start to recede.  He needs to get through one, maybe two weeks, of this.  And afterwards it should be on a far more manageable scale."

Two weeks in the hospital, laying numb and unaware of his surroundings.  It seems like a great deal of time.  And Lafayette's head starts to ache at the mere thought of it.  Two weeks.

The doctor slowly starts substantiating Pierre's comment.  Carefully making a few changes and suggestions.  "If he's sedated his body will still be in pain...but consciously he won't notice it.  It could assist him in the beginning, but we don't generally approve of such long term sedation."

"Leaving him awake isn't going to make this better," Pierre replied.  "Either he's awake and is so delirious he can't piece together what's happening in front of his face, or he's sedated and can hopefully be eased into his current situation without excess strain on his body."

"Fine," Henry allows.  "Do it."

Lafayette's shoulders slump forward.  He's already sitting, and so its easy enough to just fall.  Let his elbows slide out so they're just barely holding him up.  Neck and back bending, folding him in half.  He breathes in shallowly.  Lets it out in hitching gasps.

Hercules breathes out a sigh of relief, though.  Settles the phone on the wall between them, then wraps an arm around Lafayette's shoulders.  "He's going to be fine," Hercules whispers in his ear.  He squeezes his arm tighter.  All but shaking Lafayette's body with his determination.

It doesn't feel like it's enough.  It doesn't feel like it'll be nearly enough.

As the doctor speaks, hammering out treatment options and discussing methods moving forward, Pierre ask questions and Lafayette starts planning for disaster.  Sedation.  Induced comas.  Pain management.

Every new word brought to the table sounded far more terrifying than the last.  He's struggling to come to terms with any of it.  To put the pieces in place in his mind and get a clear image of what he's meant to do moving forward.  He feels like he's a turd in a toilet bowl, spinning about in circles and waiting to be dragged down into an abyss.

"John's going to be fine," Hercules tells him firmly.  He's not going to let this go.  Not going to accept Lafayette's terror or discomfort.  He's going to force this issue until Lafayette sees sense, and God.  Lafayette wishes it were that easy.

"I could list all the reasons why that's not true," Lafayette threatens bleakly.  Even as Pierre and Henry start engaging in a surprisingly civil conversation about John.  Isn't it a tragedy that this happened? Such a good student.  Isn't Henry proud? Wasn't even in a bad part of town.  Just walking back from the pizzeria with some friends.

It's the kind of causal behavior that makes Lafayette's skin crawl.  "You want to come back inside and sit with your boyfriend." Lafayette lifts his head.  "Nurse came by.  Said it might be better if someone sits with him so he's not alone.  Alex went immediately, but… I bet John would like to see you too."

A cool breeze lifts up and slides through Lafayette's body.  He is a window, open and frail.  Accepting to all changes the world gives him.  Screen fraying from weather and damage, eventually waiting to be replaced.

"I don't know if I can do this," Lafayette whispers.  He's been there for John through everything else the past few months.  Now it's one more thing.  One more thing for a person he met barely six months ago.

They've had a relationship for only six months.  And already the well is tapped dry.  He's running on fumes.  He's doing the best he can.  But this has been nothing but give and give and give for so long, and he's struggling to keep his head above water.  Drowning under pressure.  Always worried he's going to say the wrong thing.  That he's going to do the wrong thing.

Make matters worse.

Time and time again.

John's in the hospital right now refusing pain medicine that he should be taking, and Lafayette truly cannot fathom walking into that room and sitting next to him.  Listening to him cry out for relief Lafayette cannot provide.

Everyone he knows is trying their hardest to support John through this, and Lafayette doesn't know if he can keep it up.  Doesn't know if he can keep himself from telling John to just take the damn morphine.  Doesn't know if he can keep supporting John when he's making such a questionable decision.  "You don’t have to," Hercules tells him.

Lafayette grits his teeth.  "Don't have to what?"

"Put John first.  You don't have to." There's no implication.  No guilt trip.  No disappointment.  Hercules is looking at him blandly.  A blank slate.  Waiting to be filled.  "You don’t have to agree with John.  You don't have to agree with them," he motions toward the phone.  Pierre and Henry still talking.  It's irrelevant now.  John's decision has been defended.  And now it's just politics.  They don't matter.

As far as friends are concerned, Lafayette knows he's never been a particularly good one.  Hercules has only stayed this long because they grew up together.  Parents forcing friendship when they had nothing else.  Hercules is as good as a sibling as he'll ever have.  And likewise, their relationship is filled with excuses that no one would provide to a stranger.

Before John, Lafayette had only one friend in his life.  And now.  Now he has so many, and they're all because of John.  They're all, in the end, a facet of John.  "I've never done anything for anyone before." Hercules nods at the statement.  Knows this to be true.  Was so against John's method of detoxing that he'd argued with Lafayette about it.  Concerned that Lafayette had no idea what he was doing.  Would only keep making things worse.  "I ruined him."

"You haven't ruined him, and you aren't going to."

Lafayette huffs.  Shakes his head.  That's not true.  It'll never be true.  There are ten thousand problems in this world, and one of them is most certainly him.  "I've never done anything right whenever another human being is involved."

"You did right by me," Hercules counters.  It's a lie.  It's a lie, but it's a nice one.  It makes Lafayette's lips curl upwards.  Exhausted and worn down.  He's so tired of this.  So tired of how everything keeps welling up and down.  How the world spins on in an endless loop that doesn't seem to stop or slow for anything.  Instead, it spins progressively faster.  Until you lose your foothold and fly.  Splattering into a mess.  Unable to reform.

"I can't fix this," Lafayette says quietly.

"No one expects you to." No one would.  He's done  _ such _ a phenomenal job of keeping things in line so far.  Of course no one would want him to—"All we expect is for you to do your best.  To keep trying...do you remember when John relapsed?"

Lafayette nods.  "Of course..."

"You promised me that you'd be there for him no matter what.  Because that's the role you put yourself in.  You cast yourself as his go-to.  His friend.  His partner.  His everything.  You put yourself into that position, and you never let go.  You promised me that you would support him."

"I don't know if I can anymore."

"One last time, Gil.  I'm not asking you to do anything else.  Just go upstairs.  Give your boyfriend a hug.  Tell him you love him.  That's it.  Give that kid something to hold onto.  He's scared, and he's hurt, and he's alone.  Just give him this final bit of security.  One last time."

Hercules holds out Lafayette's cell phone, and Lafayette takes it.  Ends the call.  Puts it in his pocket and he stands up.  Licks his lips and walks forward.  One foot in front of the other.

They walk together.  Brothers in all things.  Side by side through sterile halls.  Passed the sobbing parents and the confused guests.  They pass nurses and doctors.  Pass Aaron and Madison.

They walk to John's hospital room.  There, Hercules steps back.  And Lafayette walks in.


	7. Chapter 7

His vision isn't working right.  John's lying on his side.  Pillows pressed against his legs and chest.  Arm pulled out in front of him and propped up.  Apparently it's meant to help.  His eyelids keep trying to close again.  Disappointed that he's forcing them open.  Trying to stay awake.

He doesn't know how long it's been.  Just knows that it's dark, and there's someone sitting beside his bed.  He shifts his head.  Tries to see who it is.  Thankfully, whoever it is caught the motion.  Immediately sat up straighter and leaned forward.  Face turning into view.

Pierre.

He smiles at John.  One hand dropping down to rest on John's head.  Stroke through John's hair.  Every follicle on John's head is sparking with electricity, and Pierre's hand settles it.  Makes some of the prickling die down.  Though strangely enough the motion makes John's tongue feel numb.  He's not going to even bother to try and figure that one out.

He tries to lean into the touch.  Tries to sit up and reach out.  As tired as he is, he just wants to be held.  And Pierre gives good hugs.  Gives the kind of hugs that one could just melt into.  Paternal and warm.  Comforting and all encompassing.  When he'd first been coming down hard, Pierre would wrap him up sometimes.  Hold him close and tell him nice things.

Things that didn't mean anything and never really mattered to anyone or anything.  Little factoids or simple ideas that distracted John from how his body felt like it was falling apart.  Lafayette did it too.  And to some extent, John yearned for Lafayette's hugs more than anything else.

But Pierre was different.  John couldn't fully explain all the reasons why he was different, just that he was.  That he made John feel less like a failure.  That it felt like twenty years from now, if he had a time machine, he could come back and give himself the same kind of hugs that Pierre gave him.  Knowing exactly what he's going through, and knowing that sometimes there isn't anything else that can be done.  Just this.

And this is enough.

With John's unending gratitude, Pierre does move.  Shifts so he's sitting on the bed.  He helps pull John up so he's resting against Pierre's chest.  One arm securing his waist so he doesn't slip.  The other lifting up to continue stroking John's hair.  It's nice.

"S'ni..." he gets out when he tries to speak.

"Hey kid," Pierre greets in response.  He doesn't stop stroking.  But he does take advantage of the moment to place a light kiss on the crown of John's head.  "How's the pain?"

John likes that about Pierre.  No 'how are you?' No filler questions or awkward moments.  Just.  Acceptance that John feels like shit, and moving past it without any pausing or hesitation.  John tilts his head closer to Pierre's chest.  Hums something thoughtful and meaningful, and gets his hair stroked like the lazy cat he is.

"That better than before?" Pierre clarifies.  It is.  The pain's still there.  But it lingers at a seven instead of a twelve hundred.  And he can see without his eyes feeling like they're going to gelatinize in his head.  He can breathe without his teeth aching.  He can move without his spine deciding that every part of his body needs to spasm and twitch at the exact same time.

John's body feels loose and limpy at the moment.  His muscles have given up.  He has no energy to lift them.  He sprawls against Pierre and he has no intentions of moving more than he has to.  It's better.  Not by much.  And not if he's expected to do anything.  But it's better.

"La..."

"Is with Madison, I believe.  They'll be sorry they missed you." Oh.  That was...fine.  John wonders if he's going to have enough stamina to stay up until they get here.  Thinks about asking Pierre if he'll call them.  They don't have to come.  Just.  It'd be nice to hear Lafayette's voice.

Twisting so his nose was pressed into Pierre's sternum, a sharp wave ran up his back.  The muscles twitched.  Sending additional shocks through his system.  A curse began driving its way from John's mouth, and he gasped as he tried to ride through it.

Carefully, Pierre lifted him up and resettled him once more.  Alleviating some of the pressure from his spine.  He let out a long breath.  Lungs releasing air slowly.  Wheezing.  "Gil used to get sick quite frequently when he was a child." John closes his eyes.  Grateful for the distraction.  The gentle comfort of fingers sliding through his hair.  Over and over.  Curls being flattened and tucked into place.

His eyes fluttered shut and he listened intently as Pierre spun his story.  The older man's heartbeat a steady drum beneath his head.  Beat...beat-beat.  Beat...beat-beat.  "He had an unfortunate habit of catching pneumonia at least twice a year."

John can't imagine Lafayette as a sickly child.  Well toned and put together, obsessive about eating right and cleanliness.  The idea that he'd been ill often was almost a joke in of itself.  But perhaps habits formed for reasons.  Lafayette cared so much about his body because it'd failed him one too many times.

"To be honest, I suspect he did it on purpose.  Making himself ill so one of us would come to his aid." Now that, John had no trouble imagining.  "Oh the scraped knees and the bruises, those came often.  He climbed the side of the house more times than I can count.  And as any child learns, what goes up must eventually come down."

"D-did he g-g-get-t-t-t hur-hurt a-a lot?" Each word required breath.  Each breath refused to come.  Shockwaves coasted through John ad nauseum, and John wished nausea was his true symptom.  It wasn't.

Shivering, John tried to keep his mouth under control.  Doesn't want to embarrass himself any further.

"Some.  Not as much as you'd imagine.  His greatest injury came from when he fell off the roof of the garage.  I believe the excuse had been something about a toy he'd thrown up there and had been determined to get down.  Hercules had been with him at the time.  I do believe Gil took a few years off poor Hercules' life that day.  He'd knocked himself out on the fall, and to this day the poor boy always states how he'd thought Gil had died."

"D-d-did he ge-get th-the t-toy dow-down?" John asked.

The question made Pierre chuckle.  His chest rose and fell with each little burst.  He kissed John's crown again.  Adjusted his hold a little.  Each shift was subtle.  Some better than others, but it was a process.  Finding a spot that didn't make John ache more than absolutely necessary.  "No, actually," Pierre continues.  "It's still there.  It's hard to see it actually, but when you crest the hill to the property, you can just make out a small streak of blue by one of the gutters.  I still can't figure out what it is, exactly.  But it's there."

John tries to imagine it.  Lafayette climbing up the side of the garage, focused on reclaiming his prize.  Hands confident and feet sure.  Hercules standing on the bottom fretting nervously.  Telling Lafayette what a bad idea it is to climb up there.  Lafayette ignoring him completely.

There are relatively few scars or permanent marks on Lafayette's body.  Some, sure, from fighting and fencing as long as he has.  But surprisingly few all things considered.  Comparatively, John must look a mess.  Especially with his new injuries added to the pile.  He can't help but wince a little at the thought.  Mouth twisting miserably.

"But illnesses...he collected those like the plague." John bites his lip.  Trying not to laugh at the joke.  He's mostly successful.  But he does wince as one too quick breath pulls at his back too much.  Makes him shift his arm just a little too far.

Damn it all to hell...

"There are a lot of things that I'm capable of managing, particularly the injuries.  But...illnesses unfortunately leave me a bit helpless."

"W-why?"

"I get sick easily.  It's hard for me to shake them once I do get sick.  So whenever Gil fell ill, his parents would come home and would tend to him at my request."

Oh.  That's...not what John had been expecting.  But it made sense.  He tilts his head up.  Can just make out Pierre's nostrils from this angle, and little else.  "Y-you don-don’t...have-have to-to stay here if if you don't want to..."

"You're hurt, love, not sick.  I told you, I have no trouble when someone is injured.  Illness...illness is what can make things hard.  I want to be here with you.  And even if you were ill, I'd want to be here with you."

"Somtim' don' always g-g-get what-what you want...huh?" Like a body that didn't spasm every time he tried to talk.  Like an arm that stayed in one piece and worked without complaint.  Like a back that didn't sing when it had no vocal chords but John's to sing with.  Like words that didn't sound like a mess, hitching over hair as he tried to blink past the fog and the nonsense and plant himself someplace firmly in reality.

Like that.

Flickering lights drive past the window.  An ambulance pulling around the bend.  Always on the go those guys.  "No," Pierre agrees.  "But sometimes you get what you need."

It's not that John's never heard that phrase before.  He has.  But it's always been an abstract concept.  A vague statement said to make you feel like things are okay.  John has no idea what he needs.  No idea if he's received what he needs.  Everything in his life feels like a series of wants.

A series of desires that line themselves up and get collected or discarded at will.  John rolls with the punches.  Takes the blows.  Gets back up again.  Time and time again.  He's tired of doing it, has been doing it for so long he's not sure what life is like without the constant push and pull of insanity over and over again.  He's exhausted.  But there's no alternative to any of this.

Not that he can see.

"Are you awake enough for an apology?" Pierre asks quietly.  John hums again.  Clears his throat and gives his assent more verbosely.  Not wanting Pierre to think he wasn't listening.  His hair's no longer being pet.  And John wishes he'd do it again.  It helps.  It distracts.  But Pierre wants to talk and...apparently he's apologizing.  "I'm not sure if you remember this, but your father was here."

John flinches badly.  Gasps, then chokes on the gasp.  Eyes squeeze shut as he tries to bite back the cry of pain that came.  Back and arm both screeching in pure agony.  Pierre doesn't do much to stop him.  Doesn't try to soothe him immediately or change the subject.  John's grateful.  He is.  The reaction wouldn't have been as bad if his back hadn't decided to protest with the rest of him.

It could have been subtle.  Easily ignored.  Forgotten about amongst a plethora of other decisions.  Apparently things never go his way.

"He's not here now," Pierre continues after John's managed to get his breathing under control.  He resists the urge to squeeze his hurt arm.  Knows that that's only going to making things blindingly worse, but damn it he doesn't feel well.  Curling up into a ball and disappearing seems to be the best option.

"That...why y-you're...fuck—" he needs to sit up.  He needs to sit up right the fuck now.  Pierre shifts.  Supports him as he goes.  Doesn't try to keep him down or tell him to behave.  Just goes with it.  Lets John lean forward.

It pulls at his back.  It wrenches his arm.  His arm is screaming again.  Overpowering whatever numbing sensation he'd been given prior.  His teeth are on edge.  He can feel his heartbeat in every part of his body.  Coursing through him.  Rising and falling in a daft crescendo that leaves him breathless.  Dizzy.  Spinning round and round in circles, while sitting perfectly still.

"No, that's not what I'm apologizing for," Pierre replied.  Even as John continues trying to lean forward, Pierre merely stretches out along the bed.  Long limbs reaching to the foot.  Back settling on the pillow.  He brings his hands up.  No longer providing the token comfort of his touch.  "I spoke with your father for some time."

John struggles to breathe properly.  Struggles to keep himself from falling apart once again.  He thought he made his intentions clear.  His position.  He didn't want to make matters worse.  Didn't want to have other people interfering where they did not belong.

"Your father had wanted the doctors to provide you with morphine.  Arguing quite strongly for it." That's almost funny.

"Think...he'd...c-care." John's words aren’t coming out right.  But they're close enough for Pierre to have a somewhat decent idea.  "Wh..y...?"

"Did he come? Your health insurance information needed to be provided.  He was called to let him know your current health and wellbeing.  Arrived not long after that.  He spoke with your doctor for a time.  Seemed rather alarmed that you'd been so grievously injured."

John's not sure he even remembers what his father looks like worried.  Isn't sure that such an image is all that appealing.  He tries to conjure up a sense of longing.  Desire.  Something that could push him forward.  Compel him to feel something for the man.  His father deigned to visit him at the hospital.  Surely he should feel something.

But all he feels is the fire on his back.  The flaring in his arm.  The heat coming from Pierre's leg as he lays on the bed.  There's a chill in the air, and he pulls the blankets a little.  Flinching and wincing at each exertion of his muscles.

"He did come in to see you, though I doubt you remember it.  It wasn't long before they put you under." When the pain had been so bad John had seen visions on the walls.  Thought he could taste blood that wasn't there.  Kept smelling cologne that now didn't seem so bizarre.

"I thought I imagined him," John admits softly.

Imagined the brief glimpses he saw.  Supplanting memories where they didn't belong.  Nightmares overpower a reality that already didn't make much sense to begin with.  He hated hospitals, and being in one always reminded him of his father, so why not this too? Why not this as well?

Reality never fails to provide blow after blow.  It's a cycle that shows no signs of stopping.  An loop that is effortlessly predictable.  "There was a discussion," Pierre continues.  "Regarding your health insurance coverage and how the hospital bills would be paid for." Of course there was.  Why wouldn't there have been? "He mentioned your mother's life insurance policy."

It takes everything in John's power not to flinch again.  Not to start spiraling down the endless chasm of dark thoughts this particular topic always ignite in him.  He'd done the best he could.  He really had.  But the money was dwindling away, and he couldn't afford college if this kept up.  And hospitals were far more expensive than college was.

"Your coverage in particular had a rather high deductible...one that your father felt that policy could afford."

John's head spun dizzily.  He lied.  He wasn't well enough to have this conversation.  Didn't want to think about how he'd have to move money around.  How at the end of everything, he'd still need to drop out of school.

It's all been such a waste.

"I can stop if you want," Pierre tells him.  "But I didn't start telling you this to worry you."

"You said you needed to apologize." Oh look, a sentence that came out right.  Without his chest caving in.  Without his throat closing up.  His back providing protests.  His head losing control.  He presses the palm of his left hand to his chest.  Rubs it slowly.  It does absolutely nothing.

There's no reason behind it.

"I overstepped," Pierre explains.  "In regards to your medical care...and its continuation under your father's insurance plan.  I overstepped.  I didn't ask you." He'd likely been sedated at the time.  It's not like John's been very cognizant lately.  Still, John presses his lips together.  Keeps rubbing at his chest.

Pierre goes on, "I had a frank discussion with your father regarding finances.  And his lack of concern or support in regards to your schooling.  He admitted at one point that you had been responsible for your own finances since you were a child.  Him providing access from your mother's insurance policy and using that to pay for your apartments, school, clothing, etc."

That had been a slap in the face.  To learn years after her death, when he was finally old enough to understand money and what it meant, that the care his father had been providing had been stolen from an account that never belonged to him.  To learn that not only that, but a great deal of that money had been siphoned to causes John never knew about.

"I'm not unfamiliar with life insurance.  Nor contractual arrangements...that money belonged to you, and you alone."

"It...doesn't...matter." Those are a little harder to say.  His lungs compressing hard.  Heart skipping beats enough times the monitor let out a shrill noise.  It died down almost immediately.  John let it go.

Pierre pauses.  Waits for a moment.  Nurses walk by.  Lean in to see how things are, then lean out again.  John's tired.  "Five hundred thousand dollars is nothing to scoff at," Pierre tells him bluntly.  And yeah.  John knows that.  It just doesn't matter because he's never going to—"He's agreed to return your money with interest."

John twists around.  Yelping as his back flared.  He pitches to the side, curling forward as his body fights him every step of the way.  Pierre catches his shoulders.  Pulls him around so he's on his side again.  Choking on each breath, but no longer straining the wounds.  Pulling at staples or shredding flesh around the incision.

Long minutes pass, where all John can think of or see are sparks of white light that blind him to all else.  He has tears in his eyes.  They fall down his cheek leaving him wet and uncomfortable.  His head lolls.  He struggles on each inhale.  Each exhale.

Through it all, Pierre holds him.  Carefully keeping him from doing more harm.  Carefully keeping him safe.  Whispering, “You're okay, you're okay,” in his ear.

When his immediate shaking stops, John manages to tilt his head up.  Try to look at Pierre.  Try to make sense of the words.  "Wha...wha..how?" He can't even make sense of what he wants to say, let alone what Pierre is trying to convey.

"I...expressed that while my understanding of American laws may be lacking as I am a foreigner," the little liar! "I labored under the impression the money was yours, and that you were well within your rights to sue him not only civilly but criminally as well.  Should you choose to do so."

"I don...I don't wanna..."

"He knows that." Pierre pauses.  "Now." John squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fit the pieces together.  "Your father squandered your money for his personal and professional gain, John.  Money that you were entitled to the moment your mother signed her name to a policy naming you as her sole beneficiary." What the hell kind of conversation liens that kind of information? "I may have implied that should matters such as your health insurance or your schooling no longer be under his purview...it would not be unreasonable that eventually you would need to seek suit in order to afford such things.  And that he'd left himself vulnerable to such an allegation."

"You blackmailed my dad." Basically.  That's what John's hearing in any case.  Pierre blackmailed his father.

"It's an election year." It is.  How Pierre knew his father's interest in politics or his business practices, John will never know.  Whether he'd done the research prior and had by happy coincidence now had the opportunity to share it with the world, or he'd merely been able to pick up on enough clues in the conversation to draw an opinion.  Either way...

"By our calculations, the money you'll be receiving is more than double what your mother left you with initially.  And he's...agreed to also pay for your tuition in full through the remainder of your collegiate career.  Including graduate school, should you so desire."

"What...what did....what did you say to him?"

Henry Laurens is not known for his generosity.  His willingness to negotiate.  "He recognized the Lafayette's name."

"It's-it's a big name?" John's never heard it before.

But the question makes Pierre smile.  Fond and amused.  Pleased by John's ignorance if nothing else.  "It is in certain circles." John wants to ask what that means, exactly, but Pierre's moving on.  "Your father appears to be under the misunderstanding that I am here as a butler, caring for the Lafayette's children in America."

"Children?"

"Of which, there appear to be several." John's not sure he should be finding any of this funny.  He's almost certain he should be thinking it's absurd.  Ludicrous.  Horrifying.  Instead, he's struggling to imagine his father caught in a position where he couldn't talk his way out of something.  Where he didn't have all the information, and where he'd been manipulated into position and not the other way around.  "When I...posited my opinions about his care for you, he was overwhelmed with grief.  Sought to rectify it immediately."

"Or?"

"Or any business dealings with my company would be swiftly and irrevocably denied.  And any goodwill between our...benefactors, will cease immediately."

"You threatened him to give me back my money?"

"And your schooling, and your health care.  Yes."

John's certain he's delirious still.  Certain he's somehow conjured this all up.  That he's dreaming.  "And in return he gets...?"

"Our goodwill for eight years."

"Eight...?"

"Enough time for you to finish college and graduate school if you so choose.  Longer if necessary, or less as you dictate."

"Wh..what hap-happens after?"

"He does _not_ get our goodwill, and I enjoy taking him to court for fun." John does laugh at that.  His back spasms again.  His arm aches when he moves it naturally.  Unable to ignore it entirely.

The image is too good to ignore.  Too strong to pretend isn't funny.  John laughs.  Wheezes.  Winces in pain.  Then laughs some more.  "You...apologized?"

Pierre pets John's hair again.  Soothing and light.  Banishing the tingling on John's scalp.  Settling the frizzing curls in another endless attempt.  "I should have asked before getting involved.  It was your choice to dictate."

Fair.  Very fair.  And if John was capable of caring about that right now, it might bother him.  But right now, he's still reeling from the implications.  That amount of money...suddenly back in his possession...? It's unthinkable.  Impossible to just laugh off.  Toss away.  Set aside because of pride or despair.  And that his mother's insurance policy will be rekindled...in a strange way it feels like John's mother's been given back to him one more time.

"Why...?" is he doing this.  Why is he bothering? Why is he trying so hard? For what? For him? John knows they got along, but this isn't a small gift you give to someone.  This isn't an easy gift.  It's far reaching and expensive, and political.

"I don't like your father," Pierre tells John stiffly.  "And in all your interactions with the man, from what I understand, the conflicts have stemmed from a lack of power.  John—with this, you'll have all the power in this dynamic.  He won't be able to take anything away from you.  Won't be able to hurt or interfere with you.  If he does, then he risks losing any favor our position would curry him.  Everything is your choice moving forward.  You could see your siblings again if you wanted to.  You could spend time with _him_ even.  But you now control what the results of those conversations entail."

 _You could see your siblings again._ Tears are falling faster from John's eyes.  He twists his head.  Pressing it against Pierre's neck.  He wraps his arm around Pierre's body.  Pushes past the pain and discomfort because he needs this.  Needs to do this right now.  This is the only thing he can do, and even this isn't good enough.

Oh God.

He can see his siblings.  Can call them.  Can get in touch with them.  His mother's life insurance policy's going to be restored back to it's original amount, including all the interest it would have accrued.  His school's going to be paid for.  His father can't step in and ruin things.  Can't press and press without fear of consequences.  With no fear of what could come next.

John's sobbing.  He's sobbing so hard, and the words aren't coming.  None of it is.  Pierre kisses the side of his head.  Wraps his arms around John's body.  Doesn't let him go.  Doesn't let him down.  "I'm never going to let anything happen to you again, do you understand?" Pierre asks him softly.  "You're going to be all right, John.  You're going to get through this."

"I don't-I don't-I don't—"

He doesn’t know what to say.  Doesn't know how he's supposed to respond.  The build up's been too great.  The revelation too poignant.  He's still riding through the swell.  Brief glimmers of sunlight shining through.  Preparing him for the inevitable.

"Why?" He can't stop asking that question.  Everything he knows about the human race leads to the fact that there is nothing good that comes from social interaction.  People are born with the sole purpose of making your life hell.

Even the ones who love you, who you love in return, will hurt you.  And they'll hurt you worse because you love them.  Because you care for them.  And because they know exactly where to stab.

They don't stab in the arm or the shoulder.  Wounds that hurt and will likely continue hurting for the rest of his life.

No.  They stab right in the heart.  Going for the kill.  Deadening any good feelings you have and laying waste to the soul you tried to cultivate in the garden inside your chest.

"Because you deserve it, love.  Because you've always deserved it.  And you always will."

John shakes his head.  He's eighteen years old.  He's eighteen years old, and he's a drug addict and he doesn't deserve shit.  Least of all something like a million dollars just being handed to him because his homophobic father was afraid of his boyfriend's parents.  "You could always say no," Pierre tells him.  "Let things go back to how they were before...I won't interfere if you don't want me to."

"Wha-wha- would _you_ say no?" John asked, eyes rolling up a little as a new movement sent a burning spear straight through his body.  Nerves reminding him that as much fun as he's having mentally, physically his body is ready to wave the white flag.

"I didn't."

John frowns.  Squints at Pierre's face.  Trying to understand why that sounded so strange.  Something's not right.  Or at least, something doesn't seem particularly right.  Pierre grimaces a little.  "When Gil's parents found me...I was homeless.  I'd been on the streets most of my life.  Moving from refugee camps to shelters."

"Re...fu...gee?"

"I'll tell you a story sometime," Pierre dismisses evenly.  "In any case.  There was a program.  It collected children from the shelters and brought them to a school of sorts to help raise them French.  Proper French.  It was...not a pleasant place to live.  After I became an adult, I left their care.  Lived on the streets.  Did whatever I wanted to, because it was what _I_ wanted to do.  Gil’s parents found me...cared for me.  Provided to me the education I'd never received.  The manners I'd never been taught.  And the option to financially combat the treatment of those like me.  My guardian had been a man named Louis Patack.  They ruined him for me."

"Did...did he deserve it?"

"Yes.  As did his wife Marie." Pierre's voice is low.  His mood swiftly dark and foreboding.  He shakes his head slightly before continuing on.  "Part of my upbringing left me with the understanding that if you do not have knowledge of the law, it will be used against you."

"You became a lawyer."

"An international lawyer.  One who speaks six languages so that when I travel, I cannot be taken advantage of again." Pierre smiles.  "I am a vengeful person, John Laurens.  I am hateful, and I am cruel.  And I enjoy watching those I despise suffer."

Just like Lafayette.  The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree there.  "So you said yes?" John asks quietly.

"I said yes.  And I watched their world burn." Then, with all of the grace and skill of a man who had nothing left to lose anymore.  Who had placed all of his cards on the table, and who has firmly solidified himself in one camp in particular, Pierre taps his head against John's lightly.  "What say you?"

Yes.  Yes.  He'd take Pierre up on his offer.  Yes.  He'd let him work his magic.  Let him fix things so John no longer needed to.  Yes, he'd answer any questions he needed to answer.  He'd open up the books, receive the money he was owed.  Spite his old man more than ever before.  Yes.  To all of the above.  But...there is one final thing.

"I wish you were my dad instead."

The man's eyes widen, and John knows...he's rendered Pierre speechless.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for discussions of HIV 
> 
> See end of chapter for spoiler warnings.

Pierre doesn't say anything to Lafayette when he enters the room.  If anything, he keeps his mouth shut and his attention on the windows lining John's hospital room.  He doesn't like hospitals.  All the times Lafayette or Hercules ended up in one, Pierre was rarely in it for long.  They bother him in ways he's never explained.  And despite knowing the man for years, Lafayette is still surprised by how much he doesn't actually know about his godfather.

Temporarily distracting himself from Pierre's presence, Lafayette looks down at John.  Sleeping soundly.  Curled up on his side.  He's tempted to reach out.  Trace a hand over the bandages.  Just to make sure they're secure.  That there's no streaks of blood forming beneath the careful wraps.  That they aren't too tight...

"He's fine," Pierre tells Lafayette softly.  "He was awake half an hour ago." Lafayette not sure if that's meant to be an accusation or not.  He frowns anyway.  Lifting his head.  The older man still isn't looking his direction.

Slowly settling himself into a seat beside John's bed, he gives in to the urge to touch his boyfriend.  Gently placing his hand on John's hip.  John doesn't stir.  Just keeps sleeping peacefully.  Expression still tense, breathing still hitching every so often, but peacefully none the less.  The doctors had said the pain would start fading naturally the more time that went by.  Hopefully they were starting to get over the arc.

Several moments pass, neither Lafayette nor Pierre speaking.  It's unusual.  By now Lafayette's almost certain Pierre would have said _something._ Instead, the man just continues to look outside.  Arms crossed over his chest.  The man looks furious, truth be told.  The muscles in his neck are bulging slightly from how tense they are.  And even though he's sprawling a touch, legs propped up on a third chair unethically, he doesn't look relaxed in the slightest.

"Are you angry with me?" Lafayette asks slowly.  Finally earning him a reaction.  Pierre's eyes cut his way.  Pierre's lips are pressed so tight together they've bleached white.

 _"Tell me,"_ Pierre requests silkily, speaking in French without missing a beat.   _"Do you enjoy getting arrested?"_

Oh.

_Oh._

Lafayette takes his time in answering.  Trying to work out exactly what would have given him, and Madison, away.  His godfather's a smart man, so it may not have been anything particularly obvious.  Even so...with the look that Pierre's giving him, Lafayette doubts his opinions or excuses are going to be well-received.   _"How did you know?"_ he asks instead.  Glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder.

No...that's not why Pierre's speaking French.  Lafayette changes directions.  Looks down at John.  John, who's still sleeping.  Who needs his sleep more than anything else.  They shouldn't be having this conversation here at all.

 _"I know you, Gilbert.  What did you do?"_ It occurs to Lafayette that he has a chance to lie here.  A chance to pretend that it wasn't as bad as Pierre was making it out to be.  Pierre doesn't know the details.  Won't know, if Lafayette doesn't tell him.

But...lying has never gotten him anywhere, and if he _does_ need a lawyer...he'll need to tell Pierre eventually.  If there's one thing he's learned about law, it's that it's always best to get in front of a problem before it starts.   _"I didn't kill him,"_ he starts.

Never in the history of mankind had someone looked more disgusted than Pierre in that moment.  His feet come off the chair he'd been resting them on.  He stands up swiftly.  He snatches a hand out and catches Lafayette by the back of his neck—needing to _reach_ over John's bed to do so.  Even at the awkward angle he pulls Lafayette around the bed and shoves him forcefully toward the bathroom.

He could have gotten out of it.  Knows every move on how to do just that.  Hell, Pierre's the one who taught him.  But his feet become clumsy as he's dragged around the bed.  His arms useless.  He's seven years old, getting grounded for taking his sled down the great stairs and mucking up the marble.

Tossed into the bathroom like a recalcitrant puppy, Lafayette blinks up at his godfather.  Excuses form immediately, but are cut short by the thoroughly unimpressed look he's been given in return.  Very rarely has Lafayette ever seen Pierre so irate, and he can't help but feel an immediate spark of agitation rising up in the face of it.  He's an adult.  Not a child.  Pierre has no right to continue treating him like an invalid.

 _"Do you have any idea how difficult it's been for Hercules since his brother was hurt?"_ Lafayette's mouth snaps closed.  Pierre stalks forward.  Towering over Lafayette and glaring down at him.  He keeps talking, words sharp and precise.   _"Do you have any_ notion _how hard it was for him?"_

_"What are you talking about?"_

_"Community service, probation.  Fighting to get it ACD'd.  Are you so completely oblivious to what happens around you that you don't notice? Or do you truly not_ care? _"_

_"I—I don’t know what you're talking about?"_

Pierre reached out and took a handful of Lafayette's shirt, shaking it roughly.   _"I'm talking about your best friend.  I'm talking about your complete lack of self interest.  Did you break the law tonight?"_

Yes.  He nods wordlessly.  Eyes wide as he stares up at his godfather.  Never in his life had he done something to make the man upset at him.  Not to this level.  Pierre had never shouted at him.  Never raised his voice.  Never done a thing.

Oh he'd been disappointed.  Sure.  He'd been hurt and frustrated.  Sad and quiet.  Withdrawn and dismayed by the countless things Lafayette did.  But even after Lafayette had been arrested for trespassing, for breaking the windows of Rochambeau's house, for stealing, for fighting, he'd never looked this furious.  Despite Lafayette tilting his chin into the air.  Digging his heels into the ground.  Refusing to be picked up by Pierre even though he was there.  Even though he came every time.  No matter _what_ time it was.  He'd said horrible things to Pierre back then. _You're not my father.  You can't tell me what to do._ Had once refused to leave for so long that he'd actually spent the full night and most of the next day with the police, Pierre waiting in the waiting room for Lafayette's parents to come get him.

 

Pierre hadn't so much as shouted at him once the whole time.  Had resorted to appealing to Lafayette's better nature, rather than raise his voice once.

 _"I don't know why you're upset,"_ Lafayette manages to get out.

It is, perhaps, not the best thing to say.  His godfather releases him.  Drops his hand to his side.  Glaring at him with a sense of righteous fury Lafayette cannot hope to quantify.   _"I ask you what you've done and you've assured me you've not killed a man.  Do you realize how low my expectations are of you at this point?"_

Maybe? Lafayette's still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he's truly upset the man.  He opens his mouth to say something.  To try to explain away anything at all.  But before he can manage it, Pierre's wraps his fingers around Lafayette's wrist and lifts it up in the air.  There's blood on his sleeve.

He hadn't noticed it.  He twists his head toward the mirror.  Doesn't see anything else that could incriminate him. 

_"Go home.  Get the stains out of this somehow, and take a fucking shower."_

***

The house is still set up for the party.  The balloons are still in place.  Stale chips in bowls.  Ribbons and streamers are attached to the ceiling.  The presents, Pierre’s prettily wrapped presents, still sit on the table.  It takes everything he has to walk past everything.  Strip his clothes and start a fire.  It will smell terrible.  But he can’t bring himself to care.  He sits down in front of it.  And stares.

Showering is mechanical.  Reach for the soap.  Spread it across his skin.  Feel the water fall upon his head.  He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs again.  He brushes his nails under the stream.  He gurgles water as it falls.  Shampoo, a fruity kind that John had picked up last time he was at the store.  Probably meant as a joke, but both of them actually kind of liked it.  It reminds Lafayette of John.

Everything reminds Lafayette of John.

He’s so tired.  

He steps out from under the spray and he brushes his teeth.  Forgets to put toothpaste on the brush, and only realizes after he’s been running the bristles against his incisors for nearly twenty seconds and there’s no familiar taste of mint.  Deep breath in.  Let it out.  He gets toothpaste and spreads it on his brush.  Little circles.  Start out slow.

He brushes counterclockwise.  Then moves the his hand so the brush goes over the top teeth.  Bottom.  Sides, undersides.  Try to get the backs and mostly fails.  He moves left.  Right.  Rinse and spit.

It’s robotic.  And when he puts his toothbrush back in the cup.  It over-balances and falls.  John’s tumbles out.  Lands in the base of the sink.  There’s water running on it.  Lafayette stares.  He wonders if someone’s brushed John’s teeth today.  And the answer, he considers, is probably not.

He reaches for the brush and rights the cup.  Sets it all in place.  Turns off the faucet and leaves the bathroom to find some clothes.  The smell of the burning cloth is truly rancid.  Sour and firbic.  Tugging on a t-shirt, finding a pair of boxers, Lafayette descends the stairs.  Tosses another log on the fire.  Sits at the kitchen table.

He doesn’t know what to say when Pierre walks through the door.  Madison had texted him not too long ago.  Alex is suffering a crisis of conscience and Madison wants Lafayette to come by to talk to him.  As if somehow Lafayette could make it better.  He hadn’t replied to the text.  Instead, he stared at the message until the back light on the phone fades out and the speech bubble disappears. 

John’s present sits next to Lafayette’s phone.  Wrapped in blue paper.  Gold ribbon tying it in place like epaulets.  It’s a small thing.  A box that can only hold something thin.  Maybe a necklace.  Lafayette can’t imagine what kind it would be.  John’s not one for jewelry.  Not really.  Maybe Pierre didn’t know that.

John wears his cuff, though.  He wears his cuff.  That cuff that saved his life.  Brown leather wrapping around his wrist. Straps and buckles holding it in place.  Fond and tender smiles in the morning.  A chain that could hold them together.  

A door opens...and it isn't too long until Pierre steps into the kitchen and removes his jacket.  Rolls up his sleeves.  He follows Lafayette's gaze, then tilts his head toward the box. _“It was mine,”_ he says.  Sitting at the table.   _“Your parents gave it to me when I first moved in with them.”_

Curiosity gets the best of him, and Lafayette tears open the wrapping.  Opens the box.  He was right.  It’s a necklace.  An old anchor set in bronze.  French words scripted around the sides.  He’s seen it before.  Remembers playing with it when he was young.  He used to reach up and wrap his fingers around the pendant.  Laugh when Pierre would tuck it back into his shirt.  

 _“They gave it to me, and told me I would always be welcome in their lives.  I could stay, or leave, those choices were mine.  But at the end...if I wanted, they would be my Earth.  Willing to hold me and support me.  Keep me from floating away, lost and adrift at sea.”_ Lafayette’s fingers tighten around the box.

He can’t remember seeing it in a while.  Then again, with everything else that’s been happening, he hasn’t thought much about Pierre’s choice of jewelry.   _“You’re...okay with giving it away?”_

 _“I wouldn’t have wrapped it if I wasn’t okay with it,”_ Pierre tells him calmly.  There’s something lurking beneath his voice though.  Something dark and livid.  Angry and unsatisfied.  Lafayette meets his eyes.

_“What is it?”_

He refuses to believe that Pierre’s here now because he just wanted to engage in small talk.  After what happened in the hospital, he knows he’s going to get yelled at.  Knows he probably deserves it.  But he really _hadn’t_ killed a man.  So honestly, this all seemed a little excessive.  

Still.  Lafayette _hated_ it when Pierre was mad at him.

 _“I was terrified of you when I was younger.”_  It’s not the lead off Lafayette had been expecting.  He blinks.  Stares.   _“There I was, nineteen years old, I just tested positive and—”_

 _“You_ what?” the box falls from Lafayette’s fingers.  Pierre says nothing as he leans down and picks it up.  He fixes the necklace.  Sets it back on the cotton padding.  Lets his fingers stroke the curves of the anchor.  

Something, somewhere, is ticking.  It sounds like a heartbeat.

 _“I tested positive,”_ Pierre eventually repeats.  He doesn’t look up.  Keeps his head down and attention locked on the anchor.  Lafayette feels like his chest is going to explode.  He stares at the older man.  Desperate for him to be lying.   _“It’s nearly undetectable now.  Drugs_ have _improved in the past twenty-two years.  Your parents playing no small part in that.  Their medical research…”_ Pierre makes a vague waving motion with his hand.   _“Twenty percent of their companies were dedicated to HIV/AIDS research.  They were involved with PrEP, did you know that?”_

He didn’t.

 _“They’ve been trying to keep me alive since the day we met,”_ Pierre huffs.  Sets the box on the table and finally lifts his eyes. _“I never understood why they left you with me.”_

All Lafayette’s life, Pierre had been there.  Quiet and guiding.  Sitting under his trees and following him around.  He went to every school event and meeting.  He listened to all of his ideas.  Played all his games.  He couldn’t imagine what life would have been like _without_ Pierre with him there.  

 _“You used to cry.  In your crib.  Your parents were bad about addressing you.  Kept getting caught up at work.  Focused on science and research and everything else.  They weren’t the best parents in the world.  I know that.  I’m not trying to make excuses for them.  But.  I remember listening to you cry.”_  He smiles awkwardly.   _“Back then I’d thought about leaving.  Never coming back, but you kept crying.  And no one else was going to you.  So I did.”_

He reached out and touched Lafayette’s hand, and he doesn’t know what to say.  Doesn’t understand why Pierre lied to him about this.  Even if it wasn’t a direct lie, it was a lie of omission.  He thought that Pierre and he were closer than this.  Twenty-two years of radio silence didn’t add up.  

It just didn’t.

 _“I was terrified I’d infect you,”_ his godfather tells him.   _“That I’d somehow kill you just by being near you.  And you were a naturally ill child.  Kept getting pneumonia and—I kept insisting you got blood tests each time.  Just to make sure.  Just to confirm.  That somehow I didn't...but...you didn’t get infected.  Didn’t die.  You just grew up.”_

There were years, Lafayette knows.  Whole years where he refused to talk to Pierre.  Where he shouted at him.  Screamed in his face.  Told him time and time again that Pierre was _not_ his father.  He didn’t get to tell Lafayette what to do.  How to act.  He didn’t get to tell him anything.  If he wanted a kid to boss around he should have gone out to make one of his own.

He never understood how much that must have hurt.  If there’s one thing that his godfather would never be, was a father of his own.  And if he ever did, it’d be with the knowledge that his child was going to suffer from a disease that was killing him slowly yet surely as well.

_“Your parents weren’t around for you Gil, and I know that.  I do.  But I have a hard time reconciling that with how much they have done for you.  For me.  I’m still alive because of what they did for me.  I wouldn’t be if not for them.  I wouldn’t have ever been a part of your life.  In any capacity.  Wouldn’t be a part of John’s life now.”_

A part of Lafayette can’t help but wonder if John was a choice.  Where Lafayette had been forced upon him, John had been a choice.  Like Hercules had been a choice.  Someone he chose to get close to.  Someone he wanted to know.  Treat like his son.  Instead of being forced into accepting him as his son.

 _“Why didn’t you tell me?”_ Lafayette asks.  His voice cracks.  And God.  Things start piecing together more and more vividly.  How anal retentive and hyper vigilant his parents had been about health and wellness.  Cleanliness.  Pierre’s aversion to anything that could get him sick.  But still seeing him ill.  Curled up in thick blankets.  Sometimes disappearing for months at a time.  Coming back looking worn and haggard.

Those weren’t all business trips were they?

Once, when Lafayette was thirteen, Pierre had left for nearly half a year.  When he’d come back, he looked like he’d been hit by a truck.  He never talked about it.   _“Love, not telling you was something I’ve grappled with for years.  And I’ll keep fighting with that until long after we’re done.  I don’t like to talk about it.  It changed_ _nothing , in our personal lives.  The only people it affected were your parents...and they’re...they have their own reasons for managing it.”_

 _“Do they—is that why—”_ Lafayette can’t finish his question.  He remembers asking for siblings.  For a brother or sister who could spend time with and play with him while his parents weren’t there.  They always said no.  Never debated it.  Never thought about it for longer than it took for him to ask the question in the first place.

 _“They’re negative,”_ Pierre replies quietly.   _“They didn’t spend enough time with_ _you, let alone think they’d have enough time for another baby.  It’s why I was against Hercules staying with us if you’ll remember.”_

He does remember.  He remembers Pierre arguing for weeks about it.  And all the promises his parents gave that things would be different. They’ll be around more.  It’ll be okay.  Maybe they were testing the waters.  Seeing if they were going to be able to manage another child.  They weren’t capable.  

None of that matters.   _“You should have told me,”_ Lafayette says.   _“I wouldn’t have cared.  I would have—”_

His godfather’s shaking his head.  Holding up a hand.  When he speaks, his voice is calm.  But firm, _“I’m allowed to choose who to tell, Gil.  Me coming to terms with this is_ my _cross to bear.  I’m telling you_ now, _only because I’m going to tell you how angry I am, and you need to understand why.”_

 _“You’re angry at me because you have_ AIDS?” It’s the wrong thing to say.  

Pierre glares at him.  Dark eyes burning into his skull.  Flinching, Lafayette apologizes.  It’s too little, too late. _“Shockingly,”_ the other man seethes, _“No.  I’m not.  And I don’t have AIDS.  Not yet.  And hopefully I never will.  Though, given your reaction perhaps you really aren’t mature enough to handle knowing.”_

_“It’s been twenty-two years, you’re telling me now because you’re upset!”_

_“Do you want to know another secret, love?”_ Pierre keeps talking, doesn’t let Lafayette respond.   _“You being upset that I didn’t tell you, when there is_ _no reason you needed to know, doesn’t help your case at all.”_

 _“I could have—”_ Lafayette freezes.  Words turning to ash in his mouth.  It’s not what he wanted to say.  Not what he meant.  Pierre settles back in his chair.  He smiles.  But the expression is brittle.  Broken and fraying along the edges.

_“I contracted the virus from a drug dealer I used fairly regularly.  We were having unprotected sex—”_

_“—I didn’t—”_

_“—listen to what I’m saying!  Do you know what getting tested was like for a bastard orphan in the 1990s?  I already knew your parents of course.  Your mom was pregnant with you at the time.  Do you want to know what it was like watching your mother get tested when you were already on the way?_

_“Or how about your father?  Who went and found my dealer and damn near killed him?”_  Pierre snaps a hand out and wraps his fingers around Lafayette’s wrist.  Thumb pressing down where the blood stain used to be. _“He came home with blood on his hands.  On his clothes.  Blood he didn’t_ _think about.  He was just so angry and so upset—it didn’t matter.  Do you want to know how terrified I was that I killed all three of you that night?”_

Lafayette shakes his head.  Shivering and tugging weakly at his wrist. _“I’m sorry—”_

_“Hercules said you just got tested.  That you and John both just got tested in April.”_

_“I didn’t think—”_

_“No.  You fucking didn’t.  Just like you didn’t fucking think when you decided to get revenge on a drug dealer who you know_ nothing _about_ . _Fuck you.”_ Pierre releases his wrist.   _“I have been trying your whole life to keep you safe.  Uninfected.  Healthy—happy.  And you’re just determined to be fucking stupid about it aren’t you?”_

_“I wanted to—”_

_“I KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED TO DO!”_ Pierre roars.   _“You think I don’t?  You think I don’t get it?  But your father spent six months on probation for it, and was taking HIV tests every month for a year_ _just in case.   You think John is going to be better off with you in jail?  You think you’ll even be allowed to stay in America after this?  You think John’s okay with leaving everything else behind when you’re kicked out of the country?  Visa revoked?  You think good intentions matter to a_ virus? _It doesn’t matter what you wanted.  What matters is what you did.  And you chose wrong.”_

_“I’m sorry, I—”_

_“Shut up.”_  Pierre squeezes his wrist harder. _“Just shut up.  Sit there and think about everything you did.  Then tell me every God-damned detail so I can figure out how to fix your fucking mess.”_

***

It takes hours.  

Hours to go through every little thing.  To talk about each problem in detail.  To provide aliases and alibis.  To explain how Jefferson had been found by the police, high on his own product.  His dealer supply laid out in the open.  An anonymous tip placed so he would be found.  Pierre takes notes.  Writes on a legal pad in small thin letters.  Makes Lafayette repeat everything at last twice.

Has him sign a piece of paper that declared Pierre his legal representative in all matters, and that any questions needed to go through him first.  Pierre’s succinct through it all.  He keeps his attention solely on the matter at hand.  It’s painful.  More painful than anything that Lafayette had expected.  

And between them the whole time is Pierre’s necklace.  John’s now.  An anchor to hold him to the Earth.  A promise that he’d never be let go or moved to the side.  It’s more than anything Lafayette imagined.  It’d mean so much to John.

But that’s not all.

There’s...there’s the knowledge.  The new revelations.  It all hurts.

Lafayette feels like he’s playing a game of tetris.  New events falling into place all around him.  Attacking him on all sides.  He tries to organize each moment, each piece.  Stack them together and put them in position.  Clear all the problems at once.  But then there’s a mistake.  Just one.  But it leads to another.  Another.  The end coming faster and faster, at a pace he cannot control.  How many mistakes does it take until he’s done too much.  Until at the end of everything, he’s past the point of no return.  And no amount of clearing away individual issues will stop him from failing one last time.

He wants to apologize.  He wants to apologize again and again, but he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get the chance to explain just how much it means to him.  He doesn’t know if he can make this right.  Pierre asks his questions, and Lafayette does the best he can.  He does.

It feels like it will never be enough.

The world will never be the same.  Time and time again, he wants to stop.  Ask Pierre about what he said.  Go back to before he opened his big mouth and spat out vitriol that his godfather didn’t deserve to hear.  Didn’t deserve to be subjected to.

When they stop talking, Pierre closes his book.  Pushes away from the table and tells Lafayette not to screw anything else up.  He looks as if he’s going to leave.  Turn on his heel and just walk out without another word.  But he stops.  Hesitates.  Peers down his nose at Lafayette, and then steps forward.  

Wraps his arms around Lafayette’s body.   _“I will always love you, son.”_  It’s not nearly enough.  Pierre goes to pull away, but Lafayette stops him.  Returning the embrace with as much ferocity as he can manage.  He cannot let go.  He cannot let Pierre walk away.  

Apologies rise up in his throat, and he can feel his godfather’s breath as it sighs against his skin.  Feel the muscles in Pierre’s back as he shifts.  Kneeling instead of leaning over.  Adjusting so he’s pulling Lafayette down to him.  Letting Lafayette’s head rest against his shoulder.  

 _“It’s okay,”_ Pierre tells him.   _“It’s okay.”_  It’s not okay.  Nothing about any of this is okay.  He’s been trying to handle John for months, and he’d damn near walked out that door because he couldn’t take just one more thing.  And here is that _one more thing_ and he’s frozen.  He’s frozen.

He doesn’t know what to do.  He doesn’t know how to fix it.  How to make it right.  The tetris pieces aren’t aligning properly.  They should fall in place, but they don’t.  They don’t go where they’re supposed to go.  His head aches.  His chest burns.  He’s reaching a finish line and he can’t get out from under it.  

 _Help me,_ Lafayette thinks.  But guilt forms almost immediately.  Of everyone in this narrative, he’s the least deserving of anyone’s help. _“You know that’s not true,”_ Pierre tells him sharply.  Lafayette winces.  He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.  But once it’s been brought into play, it’s there for good.  

Detangling himself from Lafayette’s embrace, Pierre rocks back on his heels.  Takes two fingers and forces up Lafayette’s chin.  Eye contact.  “ _You do need help, love.  You’re going through a lot.  I know you’re going through a lot.  Everyone knows you’re going through a lot.  But being depressed—”_

_“—I’m not depressed.”_

_“Yes.  You are.”_ Pierre glares.   _“And pretending you're not doesn’t make it any less true.  You’ve been depressed for months.  And maybe things got better over time, maybe you found that things were going well for a short while, but that doesn’t take away from this.  Right now.”_

Lafayette shakes his head.  He’s not depressed.  Depression is not having the strength to get out of bed in the morning.  It’s apathy and exhaustion.  It’s not bothering to fight for things because what does it matter?  They always go wrong.  It’s not hunting down drug dealers in order to exact personal vengeance for an endless list of wrong-doings.  Spikes of anger and lashing out in all the wrong ways.

Hyper-sensitive to every imagined wrong.

 _“You’re such an idiot sometimes,”_ Pierre sighs.

 _“I know.”_  His godfather is giving him a look.  A _Don’t you see it yet?_ That only serves to drag Lafayette down.  He tilts his head forward.  Back curling down.  In on himself.   _“I keep screwing up.”_

_“You’re a kid, Gil.  Kids screw up.  They make mistakes.  You’ve been lucky.  The consequences of your mistakes haven’t been as bad as they could be.  I’m talking to you know because it’s important.  Because I don’t want to get the phone call telling me that you’re in jail.  That you got HIV.  That you’re past the point of no return and I can’t do anything to fix it.  I want you to understand why it’s important.  Why it matters.  Because it matters to me.  Okay?   You matter to me.  More than anything else in this world.”_

_“Even my parents?”_

_“Yes.”_  He says it without hesitation.  Without a breath for air.  Without any sign that he disagreed.  He says it.  And he smiles faintly.   _“I’ve been in love with your parents since well before you were born, Gil.  But I made_ _you a promise to always be there for you._ You’re _my priority.  Not them.”_

_“Did you tell them about what was happening?”_

The answer is not unexpected. _“Yes.”_ Of course he had. “ _And I’ll tell them what you did too.”_  Of course he will. “ _You should talk to them.”_ He’s been pressured into talking this his parents for years.  

For the first time, Lafayette actually agrees.  Pierre always said  he was more like his parents than he ever realized.  And he’d been right.  

How many times was he going to repeat history? Until he accepted fate, and tried to learn from past mistakes?  John’s in the hospital, Jefferson’s in lockdown, and Pierre has HIV.   _“I’ll call them tonight.”_

The necklace sits between them on the table, and Pierre picks it up.  Presses it into Lafayette's hands.   _"You should give this to John yourself.  When you're ready."_

His fingers squeeze around the box.  He doesn't know when that will be.  After all.  You have to be stable if you're going to be someone's earth.  And right now?  He feels anything but. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler warnings: Pierre has HIV, and has a frank discussion with Lafayette about it.   
> Lafayette does not handle this discussion well, and he makes several mistakes. He is judgmental and he accuses Pierre of having AIDS - something Pierre immediately denies. 
> 
> Please note that Lafayette's handling of this situation is not ideal, and neither of them are in a good position to be talking about it rationally. Please also note that Lafayette's opinions on the matter stem from a position of immaturity and uncertainty of how to proceed. He's upset and reacting badly. 
> 
> Pierre, likewise, is upset when he tells Lafayette. Their discussion is very hard for both of them to have and there are several inferences that are made and could be made that could be upsetting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: brief discussion of suicide ideation, child abuse, mental anguish, and depression. More discussions on HIV/AIDS. 
> 
> The event that John's talking about with his father takes place in an early fic I wrote: I'm Not Stupid : http://archiveofourown.org/works/6289198

“At least it’s summer vacation?” Alex offers as he sits at the end of John’s bed.  The doctor had come in and fit John’s arm for a sling.  Told him how to wear it so the strap didn’t press too hard against his shoulder.  He’s been given a lecture about overusing NSAIDs and kidney damage every day since he first seemed well enough for the doctors and nurses to explain it to him. 

John kept his lips pressed together.  Nodded his head.  And accepted their criticism.  Listened as they told him he needed to monitor his heart.   _If you feel any pain—stop immediately.  Call 911.  It's been under a great deal of stress.  Take it easy._

When they handed him documents regarding addiction...he's just grateful they waited until after his father disappeared from the hospital grounds before giving it over.  There were a few pages hell-bent on discussing his ability to manage his addiction through proper pain management.  That there was a difference between taking one Vicodin and taking thirty-two percocets.  It didn't change a thing.  John managed to smile and nod his head.  And promised he’d read the paperwork.  Even though he knew he never would. 

He was much happier when they brought him the forms he needed to sign to leave.  “You still gotta give a statement to the cops,” Alex reminds him as he helped John get his shoes on.  Much harder with only one arm to manage, though his friend was eager to assist. “What’d _you_ tell them?” John asks quietly.  

“The truth?  We were heading back to the car and we got jumped.”  All things considered, John is still having a hard time piecing together what the fight had even been about.  Madison, most likely.  John had been pushing for Madison to spend less and less time with Jefferson.  Had been the primary reason Madison had quit dealing, even if Madison insisted that wasn’t the case. Had been the one who kept Madison out of Jefferson’s line of sight.  

Alex helps get him up onto his feet, and into the wheelchair that a nurse had brought over privately.  He eases John down, and then squints at John’s hair.  “You want a tie?” Yes.  It’s a mess, and it’s driving him insane at the moment, but doing it one handed was never going to happen.  

His hair is gathered between Alex’ clever fingers.  Pulled backward and looped into a neat tail that is considerately shifted over the back of the chair so John’s not leaning against it.  “Where’s Lafayette?” John asks quietly.  

“Home.  He wanted to be here today, but he and Pierre needed to go over something.”

“Go over something…?”

Alex hums in response.  Then says, “You think I could push you fast enough so we could skate to the end of the hall?”  

Probably.  “Go for it,” he replies.   They’re going to get in trouble, but it’s worth it to hear Alex start giggling.  Laughing under his breath as he picked up the pace and started to run a little.  

They’re halted immediately by Nurse Ratched who snaps at them to slow down, this is a hospital not a playroom.  Someone else informs Alex that if he’d like to be responsible for getting John out of the hospital, then he’d need to _act_ responsible.  And even though Alex promises to behave, they still end up with an escort.

It was fun while it lasted though.  John shifts in his chair and keeps his shoulder from pressing too hard on the back, and he smiles up at his friend.  Attempting, no matter how minisculely, to share that at least he appreciated Alex’s efforts.  His friend rolls his eyes.

They reach the elevator in a respectable fashion.  Head down to the bottom floor and start making their way to the front door.  “We could stop at the gift store,” Alex offers.  “Get a couple of teddy bears hearts.”

“Trading your seal in already?” John asks.  He feels dizzy.  Maybe the nurses had a point about running.  The speed left him feeling a bit unsettled.  It’ll be nice to get back to the house and go to sleep.  “What happened to my cuff?”  

Sun’s filtering in through great glass windows, and there’s a car out front.  John half expected to see Madison’s car there.  But it’s some unidentifiable sedan.  “Police have it,” Alex replies slowly.  “Evidence for the trial.”

“There’s going to _be_ a trial?” Who was going to prosecute this case?  And why would anyone want to put John, Alex, or Madison on the stand?  That didn’t even make sense.

“Have you _met_ Lafayette’s godfather?”

Oh.

John’s chest warms unexpectedly, and he flushes.  Feeling strange.  A part of him wants to ask Alex if he knew what Pierre had done.  If he knew that John’s been given a gift he’s never had before.  Another part is terrified that if he tells Alex it was okay that Pierre stepped that boundary, that it would give Alex an excuse to do it himself sometime.  Or worse yet, would hurt Alex’s feelings that John hadn’t been similarly upset with Pierre for _his_ meddling.

The wheelchair slows as they reach the doors.  Their escort instructs Alex to put the brakes on, and then assists his friend in helping John to his feet.  Another wave of dizziness hits him, and he is absurdly grateful it’s not too far of a drive to get back to the house.  Alex slides into place at John’s side, and the two of them carefully make their way out into the bright summer light.

The sedan’s driver side door opens, and when it does, John flinches.  His dad.  Henry Laurens is standing there in all of his morning glory, and Alex’s fingers tighten around John’s wrist.  “Stop,” John tells his friend.  Alex’s grip is brutally tight around his good arm, and John only has one of those left.  He jerks his hand a little, but it doesn’t set him free.  

“John…” Alex murmurs.

“Jack,” Henry says.  

“I...I’m gonna talk to him,” John decides.  His best friend’s grip tightens a fraction more, but then...it lets up.  Alex adjusts his hold.  Brings him to the car door, and Henry walks around the vehicle to see him.  

“How are you feeling?”  Henry asks.  

It’s an innocent question.  One that doesn’t really mean much in the grand scheme of things.  John’s not entirely too interested in it.  And at the end of the day, he doesn’t care to have a conversation about his health with his father.  He’s tired.  Worn out.  And he wants to go home to be with his boyfriend.  “Not that good,” he replies.

To his left, at least Alex isn’t trying to get involved.  Isn’t saying anything, actually.  He promised he wouldn’t force John to make a decision against his will, and he’s holding up his end of the bargain.  It’s killing him, John knows.  But he’s doing it.  John never would have tested Alex’s commitment like this.  Never if he could have avoided it.  But here he is now, and there’s Alex.  

And his friend is proving how much he means to make right on his promise to do better.

God bless Alexander Hamilton.

“I was hoping we could talk?” Henry asks.  There was a time, John knows, when he always thought of his father as _dad._ When he desperately reached back in hopes that things would work out between them.  Stockholm syndrome, John thinks irrationally.  He wonders if you can get Stockholm syndrome from spending time with your own parents.

If that was the case, then wouldn’t everyone have it?  Raised up in the paradigms set out by the people you call your mentors?  Your viewpoints altered so you’re put in a predicament where you always side with your captors?  Are your parents really that at the end of the day?  Or is it somehow worse?  If someone takes you from your parents and loved ones, turns you into something different...who’s to say the new you is any worse than the old you?  Who’s to say that that matters?

Who’s to say that the people you’re born with are the real family that you were meant to have?

John meets his father’s eyes.  He sees less of himself in Henry the more they interact.  “I’m tired.”

The older man looks only slightly aggrieved by the declaration.  Motioning toward the vehicle.  “I’ll drive you home.”  

Another car door opens.  Further down the line.  Madison.  Hands stuffed in his pockets.  Slowly walking closer.  Aaron’s with him.  Watching.  Waiting.  “Hey Mads,” John greets.  Rumor has it Madison saved his life.  Kept the asshole who’d been stabbing him from stabbing him somewhere more fatal.  He needed to thank him properly.  Hell...he needed to thank a lot of people.  It couldn’t have been easy.  

Sitting in that hospital.  Watching him scream and shout.  Thrash and bend because he was in too much pain to manage how it all felt.  But every single one of them, right up to his _father_ had respected his choice.  “Your friends really seem to care for you.”  His dad’s trying.  John gets that.  He does.

And a part of him wants to think this is real.  That this is an honest attempt at companionship and not a reaction from the court case that Pierre’s threatening him with.  Wants to believe that Henry is actually capable of caring about him.  In some small, insignificant way.  It wouldn’t have to be much.  John never thought it needed to be much.  

Then again...when John thinks of his father, what comes to mind now are not the hopes of a different birthday memory.  Not the dreams of a proud parent at graduation.  Not love or support.  Ball games.  Trips to the zoo.

The time for that has passed.  John’s ability to wait for that has passed.  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  Fighting desperately at the exhaustion that pulls at him.  He has enough energy left inside him for one final conversation.  And then he thinks he’ll be done.  “Yeah...yeah they do,” he looks at his friends.  “I’m going to ride home with him,” he can’t quite say _my dad._  “Follow behind?”

“You sure?” Aaron asks him.  John nods.  He’s sure.  

Stepping away from Alex, John smiles at his friend.  The smile isn’t returned.  Henry opens the car door, and John settles himself tenderly inside.  He buckles his seatbelt and tries to remember the right pace to breathe at.  

Breathe in. Two, three, four.  Breathe out.  Two, three, four.

Henry gets into the driver’s seat, and the others pile into Madison’s car.  Together, both vehicles pull onto the main road.  There’s a slightly hysterical moment, where John thinks Henry won’t talk to him.  Where they can just finish the trip in silence, and nothing more needs to grow between them.

The moment passes quickly.  “So...your first year of college...wasn’t great.”  It’s an understatement.  But it’s one that’s so wonderfully crafted, John just laughs.  Shifts to not put pressure on his back.  Curl an arm around his chest.

“What do you want...dad?” John asks.  The word feels foul on his tongue.  Sets back images of a name appearing on his cell phone.  Of voicemails that burned so deep into his soul he couldn’t see straight anymore.  Of pain and anxiety and triggers that made no sense.  He squeezes his stomach and feels his ribs ache.  His heart strain to keep beating.  His arm throbs viciously in pain.

“Martha Manning--” There’s a party.  Music.  Alcohol.  Slap on the back.   _Make me proud son._  Sheets twisted around him and lips on his.  He said no.  He said no.  He said no.  

“I’m not talking to you about Martha Manning.”

“Son,” his father sighs.

“I’m not talking to you about Martha Manning.”

“Jack--”

“If you’re going to talk to me about Martha Manning I’m going to get out of this car.”  The car door locks.  John feels his heart start beating faster.  Blocking out everything.  His chest is aching so very bad.  His lungs aren’t drawing air properly.  John turns.  Hoping he can catch sight of Alex or Aaron or Madison.  Flag their car down and put an end to this.

His father’s hand touches his wrist, and John jumps.  Throws himself against the car door.  His arm and shoulder scream in agony.  He makes a sound, pitched high and tearing out of his throat.  The hand lifts immediately.  Was there and gone in a flash.  John stares at Henry with wide eyes.  His father’s staring back.  Hand floating in the air.

“I was wrong,” Henry tells him.

“I don’t want-I don’t want-” the words aren’t coming.  He wants out of this car.  Now.  He’d been so stupid to get in.  Everybody knew how stupid he was.  Everyone.  Even Pierre and his lawsuits.  Everyone understood what John kept willfully ignoring and tossing away.

He squeezes his eyes shut.  Tries to steady his breathing.  “I spoke to her,” Henry plows forward.  Indellicate.  Uncaring.  “She told me what happened.  Told me why.  Told me it wasn’t your fault and...and I shouldn’t have left you that voice message.”

_It’s your fault a bright young girl like Martha Manning would want to kill herself.  How could you make her feel that way?  What’s wrong with you?_

John’s going to be sick.  He scrambles for the handle.  But it won’t move.  It won’t move.  It won’t. “Jack--” he flinches.  Presses harder against the door.  His arm is screaming at him.  His shoulder is sending pain up and down his back.  His vision is blurring.  Bile rises up his throat and he swallows it back as hard as he can.

“I’m sorry, Jack…” The car stops at a traffic light.  “I’m sorry.”  

 _Breathe John._ John pulls his legs in close.  The pain is all encompassing, but he can curl in and he can breathe through it, and he can pretend that it’s going to be over soon.  It’s going to be over soon.  “I’ve been a terrible father to you,” Henry continues.  John wants to laugh through the hysteria.  Wants to cry through it.  He’s going to look like a mess when he gets out of the car. And it’s just going to worry everyone so much more.

“Your friend’s caretaker…” Pierre.  His God-damned name is Pierre.  And he’s not a caretaker-- “He cares a great deal for you.”

John can feel his heart start to slow.  Lafayette and Pierre he can deal with.  The contract and money...John can deal with that.  He cannot deal with Martha right now on top of everything else.  He just can’t.  

“Are you...is that...are you _dating_ the young Lafayette boy?”  Cold water seems to drench John’s soul.  He forces his head up to meet his father’s eyes.  

“You want to play supportive dad now?” he hisses.  “Now?  When you damn near made me kill myself?  When you damn near killed me _your_ self?  When you never gave a fuck about me unless it benefited you--oh.  It’s benefiting you.”  John feels a little hysterical as he looks at his father.  He shouldn’t be here.  He shouldn’t be having this conversation with him.  He should be in a car with Alex getting his hair pet.

Getting told how loved he is.  Being reminded that he’s okay.  He’s going to be okay.  He made the right choice and they’re proud of him.  He should have made the right choice.  This wasn’t it.  He didn’t need to attempt closure.  The chapter had already been closed.  It didn’t need to be revisited one more time.

“Jack--”

“You want me to suck dick to get you what you want?  Keep the Lafayettes happy, and they’ll keep you happy?  It’s okay if I’m gay, so long as I’m only gay for the rich French bastards who funnel money into businesses you want to control?”

“You know that’s not true.”

“ _How would I know that?”_  John asks.  There are bees in his brain.  He can feel how his blood moves in his fingers.  His toes.  “When have we ever had a real conversation?  When have you ever given a _fuck_ about me?  Dad, you tried to kill me!  And I still got in this fucking car with you.”  The longest light in the history of the world finally changes.  They start to move.

“It was an accident...it was an accident John--”

“--how do you _accidentally put someone in the trunk of your car?”_ John shouts.  His head is burning.  His head feels like it’s about to explode.  “How do you beat someone so badly that they.  No.  No.  Fuck.” John presses a hand to his face.  He shivers.  

“Is it left or right?” Henry asks quietly.  John looks up.

“Left.  Then a right at the stop sign.”  The car turns left, and John breathes in.  Lets it out.  “I lived in an apartment by myself for nine years.  You spent my mother’s life insurance money.  It was _mine._ You--you don’t get to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I’m not pretending it didn’t happen.”  He reaches into the center console and pulls out a packet of paper and a pen.  Giving it to John.  

“What is this?”

 _Stipulation and General Release_ is written on the top.  He sees the places where he’s meant to sign his name.  Words about actions and liability and claims.  Dropping charges.  In exchange for...nothing.  It’s not the contract Pierre had been discussing.  John laughs.  

It was a bad attempt.  A really bad attempt.  And it’s one that John’s almost glad transpired the way it did.  The car eases to a stop in front of Lafayette’s house.  Pierre is already on the porch.  Expression thunderous.  “Unlock the door.”

“John, sign it...please.” John closes his hand around the packet.  He unbuckles his seatbelt.  Tries to pull open the handle.  It’s still locked.  Pierre prowls down the steps.  Dark eyes glaring at Henry as he approaches.  He’s the horsemen of the apocalypse.  All four of them.  War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death.  

He’s attacking and brutal.  He’s violence and without mercy.  He’s the furrowing maggots that seek out a festering wound and tear it asunder.  Devouring the rot as he digs in through the pain.  He’s the cold harsh separation of possibilities.  He’s a deliverer of Justice.

“Unlock the fucking door or I’ll add kidnapping to the list of things Pierre’s going to take you for.”  The door unlocks and John throws himself out of the vehicle.  He’s drawn into a tight embrace in seconds.  Tightly coiled muscles and barely restrained fury.  John wonders which one of his friends called Lafayette.

He owes them a cake.

Pierre’s arms are warm and tight around him, and being held has never felt this good.  “Go inside,” Pierre tells him.

“I never want to see him again,” John growls out.  The front door opens.  Lafayette.  Good God, please--

Pierre kisses the side of his head and pushes him to the side.  “Go inside.  I’ll take care of it.”  John goes.  Goes and ignores what’s happening in the yard.  Just goes.  Up the stairs.  Up to his boyfriend who doesn’t so much as hesitate before pulling him in and holding him close.  

“I can’t-I can’t-”

Lafayette brings him inside.

And he shuts the door.

***

The basement is cool.  Comfortable.  Safe.  

Lafayette locks the door behind them.  He helps guide John toward the mats.  Finds a folded blanket tucked in a cabinet filled with towels and medical supplies.  He wraps it around John’s body and settles in beside him.  It’s a simple thing.  To turn.  Rest his head against Lafayette’s chest.  Keep his arm and shoulder out of the way.  

John’s done a lot of stupid things in his life, but he thinks that getting into that car must be the stupidest.  “Christ,” he curses.  Squeezing his eyes shut.  He’s hurting.  And not just in a mental and emotional sense.  His whole body is in pain.  His spine is protesting weakly around the vibrating muscles along his back.  His scapula keeps sending electric shocks directly into his spinal column.

It makes his legs twitch.  His cheek spasm.  Sweat forms on his brow and he turns his head against Lafayette’s body.  The packet of papers he’s been clutching like a lifeline, are slowly pulled from his grip.  Set to the side.   “I fucked up,” John grits out.  Lafayette kisses his hair.  Adjusts his grip so he’s supporting more of John’s body weight.  Not letting him put too much pressure on his spine.  

“Apparently, these things do happen,” Lafayette tells John.  Sighing even as his lips twitch into a smile.  John hesitates for a moment, but then huffs.  

“You know that for a fact?” he asks lightly.

His boyfriend nods.  Kisses his hair again.  It feels nice.  Sweet.  Kind.  “‘S what I keep being told anyway.  You want to talk about it?”  Not really.  He shakes his head, and Lafayette hums.  Reaches for something in his pocket.  It takes John a moment to realize that there’d been a bulge there.  But it’s rather a large object.  And when it’s removed, John feels tears press against his eyes.

It’s his cuff.

Or.  It’s a _very_ good replica of it.

“Called the artisan up myself,” Lafayette explains quietly.  “Told him what happened...that it saved your life…”  There are moments when the words won’t reach.  When there is nothing you can do but hold out your hand.  Beg with your body and not your voice.   _Please._

The cuff goes on.

It feels like coming home.  Locking out a myriad of problems.  Sending the hysteria, for the moment, scuttling into the background of his mind.  The heavy leather feels _good_ against his skin.  Like it was always meant to be there.  

Weighted and natural.  Calming and strong.  He remembers this feeling.  Remembers how his heart burst the first night he wore his cuff.  How he and Lafayette would lay together.  Intertwined.  How the panic that rose over spring break, fell sharp and sweet upon its conclusion.  He can draw up the image so clearly.  The thought of blankets rising up and wrapping around his body.  The feeling of a chain connecting him to someone he never want to part from.

He never liked the feeling of waking up in hospitals with no one but the beeping there to keep him comforting.  And as he listened to the beeping it only served as a reminder that he was still alive.  That he wasn’t done just yet.  A pleasant enough thought sometimes.  But one that tore his mind in half at others.

He hated sleeping alone.  

John closes his eyes.  He shifts.  Straddles Lafayette’s lap.  Leans forward so his brow touches his boyfriend’s.  His arm and back are still in agony.  He hasn’t waited long enough between doses to take more NSAIDs, and as much as he scoffed at the nurses at the hospital, he really doesn’t want to end up back there with kidney failure on top of everything else.

The worst part about it all...is that John’s not even sure he could explain the rationale if he tried.  Maybe the idea of freedom of choice had given him beer muscles he hadn’t known he’d had.  The idea was a nice one.  He could choose to see his father if he wanted to.  He could make the rules.  He could try to have a relationship with the man.

He could try to figure out what it meant to be someone’s son.  He hasn’t known what that felt like since his mother died.  And he misses it.  Wants it.  “I told Pierre I wished he was my dad.”  Lafayette breathes out.  Minty-fresh air slides up John’s nostrils.  Makes his brain tingle.

“He’d be a good dad.”  The words are said slowly.  Quietly.  But the tone is off.  Distracted and almost musing.  John doesn’t have the wherewithal to figure it out.  He has no _desire_ to figure it out.  He breathes in.  Shifts his weight.  Lets Lafayette hold him closer.  Moves so John’s head rests against the side of Lafayette’s face.  John settles in, and tries to ignore how bad the right side of his body feels right now.

Down here, it’s hard to know what’s happening up above.  If there’s an argument taking place in the driveway.  If his father is still there.  Aaron, James, and Alex had been pulling in right behind them, so undoubtedly there was a collection of individuals who were all witnessing whatever showdown was transpiring.  

Paper rustles.  The packet.  Lafayette’s looking at it now.  Scanning down the lines of the page and frowning at it.  John can feel his lips tugging down.  “Did you know?” he asks Lafayette softly.

“After,” his boyfriend replies.  “I would have told him not to if I’d known prior.”

John doesn’t exactly have the best track record with accepting interference.  Especially with his family.  It might have been the safer call.  “I’m not...not mad,” his voice strains as he tries to bear the latest spark, electrocuting the nerves.  He can feel his fingers twitching in his cast.  Damn it all.

No reply.  Lafayette finishes reading, and sets the packet down.  Tilts his head back.  Leans more firmly against the wall.  “I need to go home for a while.”  That, John thinks, is not the reaction he was expecting.  He forces his eyes open.  They’re blurred slightly, but he blinks through that.  

“To...to France?”

Nod.  Dark curls bouncing along the sides.  Straining against where his skull presses them against the wall.  Fanning around his face.  Lafayette’s hands settle around John’s hips.  Squeeze in around the bones that jut out beneath his waist.  Too narrow a gap.  Too skinny.  And John had been _working_ on putting on more weight too.

“I...I understand the timing is not ideal…” Lafayette sighs.  Meets John’s gaze.  He looks like he had the day John realized he wasn’t sleeping.  As if the entire world had decided to redirect all of its gravity directly to him.  Pushing him deep into the center of the Earth.  

Nothing about their lives has been ideal.  John half thinks their entire relationship has been cursed from the start.  But this is different.  “What’s wrong?” The lips before him tremble.  Smile weak and vaguely formless.

“Pierre has HIV.”  

Oh.  

_Oh._

“You didn’t know.”

“You did?” He doesn’t sound mad.  Just resigned.  Come to terms with the fact that the most important person in his life had shared something so monumental with someone that wasn’t him.

“Not until recently,” John replies softly.  “And...and…” his arm _sings._ Tears press at his eyes unbidden, and John grits his teeth.  Forces it back.  “And he didn’t _tell_ me.  I just…” Figured it out.  Made a guess.  Assumed.  Pierre gave hints from time to time, sure.  Glass on the floor.   _I’d rather if you didn’t…_ Aversions that piled up.  

There was a feeling.  A feeling that John had felt and assumed, and understood.  Some people don’t want to talk about it.  And there’d been no reason for the older man to talk to _John_ about it.  The closest they’d come was a single moment months ago.  When they’d been studying in John’s room.  Right before Lafayette had come in and asked him about Martha.

When Pierre had asked him.   _Did you have unprotected sex?  Did you get tested?  You can’t do that.  You can’t.  John.  Be careful.  Things can go wrong so easily.  I don’t want to see you sick._ The conversation never found its end.  The natural conclusion losing itself amidst the chaos of what followed.

Leaving behind thousands of thoughts that came and went, but nothing concrete.  Nothing confirmed.  Nothing that Pierre ever went out of his way to talk to him about.  And maybe he just expected others to pick up on it.  Learn from osmosis and never need to talk to him about it.  “Is he…” John doesn’t know if he could handle knowing that something else was happening.  That he’s ill and he’s dying.  That it’s advancing to AIDS or--

“He’s fine,” Lafayette tells him.   _“Merde,_ Lapin, he’s fine.”

_Lapin._

Tears _do_ start to fall now.  John can’t remember how long it’s been since he heard that name and his shoulders hitch.  Spasming pain through him once again.  Can’t even cry without it hurting worse than anything else.  He’s not the only one unaffected, though.  Lafayette’s eyes are just as moist and it takes both of them a moment to take a deep breath.  Calm down.  

“I just...I need to go home and...my parents--I need to talk to them.”

“They knew.”  That, John can guess with no hesitation or confusion.

“They’re sleeping with him.”

John doesn’t know what to say to that.  It’s...strange.  Not unheard of.  Hell, considering how close he is with Alex, it’s not even something he’s not used to.  But...the idea of their parents in that kind of relationship is...strange.  Somehow.  “I just…” Lafayette takes a deep breath.  “I need to talk to them.  In person.”

“I’ll go with you.”  The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.  But he doesn’t regret the offer.  Not for one moment.  Lafayette blinks at him.  Uncertain.  Cautious.  “I...I want to go with you.”

He doesn’t want to wait in this house by himself for Lafayette to come home.  Doesn’t want to go with Alex back to visit the Stevens, or stay with him, Madison, or Burr wherever they’re at.  He wants to go with Lafayette.  Be with him.  Wake up in the morning next to him.  Wants to lock their cuffs together again, and no longer lay in bed alone.  

He doesn’t want to be on this side of the ocean, if Lafayette’s on the other-side.  There are a million problems that exist here in America, and if running away for the summer meant he could escape them all for a few months...he will gladly accept that compromise.


	10. Chapter 10

Getting to France took time. _God damn it all._

To start with, no one was particularly happy when they heard the news.  They call it excessive at best, running away at worst.  Alex couldn't look more heartbroken if he tried, and he tried.  "He just got hurt and you're going to take him away?"  Alex was not above guilt tripping, and if Lafayette had any control over the situation—he'd probably feel bad.  But he doesn't.

He simply accepts Alex's comments.  His blame.  His criticism.

It's not about Alex.

It's about him.  Lafayette needs to go back home for a little while.  The timing is terrible, the circumstances couldn't be worse, but he can't help it.  Any of it.  John might not be in the best place to make a decision like this either, but he still made the choice to go home with Lafayette.  He still chose to leave the States while he's healing.

Truthfully, that meant more than Lafayette had words to say.

When it comes down to it though, Lafayette’s terrified that if they’re separated then this relationship won’t last.  That the stress and the turmoil and confusion of the past few months will catch up to him when he doesn’t have John there to prove there’s a reason to fight for it.  That John was willing to travel, meant they had a better chance of keeping that going.  Keeping this fragile alliance alive.  

Lafayette can still feel the burning under his skin that makes him jump and twitchy.  The desire to do wrong and to break the bones and bodies of anyone who contradicts him.  Alex doesn't understand how close to _his_ breaking point Lafayette really is.  And while Alex still works to try to convince John staying in America would be better for his health, Lafayette’s endlessly grateful that John says, “No.  I’m not staying here.”

Pierre quietly sorts out the tickets.  He confirms that John even has a passport, and then goes to make all the necessary arrangements.  Promising he'll get back to them with exact dates, though he looks more unsettled by the sudden announcement than he has any right to.   _Probably thinks that I'm going to yell at my parents,_ Lafayette muses as he watches Pierre grow steadily more scarce as time slips by.

Excuses are made for the delay.  Police reports still need to be finalized and hospital visits still need to be attended.  John's arm is scanned and re-scanned with great regularity.  He’s aching and in pain and he’s miserable more often than not.

Most times he'll come home from the hospital and curl up with Lafayette on the floor of their basement.  Settled into their spot.  Their place to go to when all the world feels as if it’s going to turn itself the wrong way out.  It's where Lafayette found John and Pierre after they’d fenced.  Where they’d come to hide on so many other occasions.  Always falling into the same place.  The same position.  An arm around the shoulders.  A gentle appeal for peace.  Acceptance.  

John’s fencing equipment line the walls, neatly packed away.  His sabre resting in its bag.  Lafayette hasn’t mentioned it yet.  No one has.  But sooner or later the topic will rise.  John will have to think about his love for the sport.  His ability to participate in it.  Already, Lafayette can see where the problems will be.  Where the concerns will start mounting up.

John's scapula has a crack in it, and the muscles were sawed through.  He can’t pull his arm back into proper position.  It will affect the injury too much.  And his upper arm...he might not have the strength to hold in the air.  The doctors had noted weakness in John’s fingers already.  Perfectly within normal ranges all things considered, but still.  A _concern_ they called it.

They said they’d need to check again after his arm has time to heal.  After the break mends and the muscles start stitching back together.  Then they’ll review.  Lafayette prays that it’ll end up right for him.  He really does.

For all that going to France is for Lafayette...the distraction from such things might actually be a good thing.  The longer they can keep John away from thinking about things he can't do right now, the more chance he'll have to heal.  They could all do with a little more healing.

A little separation.

The agreement that Henry had thrust into John's hands had disappeared not long after Pierre found out about it.  Lafayette doesn't think he's ever seen his godfather look so completely lethal before, but the man's expression had been murderous.  Volatile.

"I don't understand why he's upset about it," John admits quietly as he lays in Lafayette's arms.  His sweat soaked brow burrowing against Lafayette's neck.  Lafayette's taken to resting his palm along John's heart or throat.  Sometimes his neck.  Feeling the calming beat of John's heart as it plows steadily forward.  For once, he’s running cooler than John.  Can press cold fingers to John’s skin and offer some relief.

"You don't understand why the man, who all but views you as his son, is upset you were nearly taken advantage of?"  His Laurens, Lafayette knows, has a great capacity for forgetfulness when it comes to his place in others' hearts.

John shrugs a little.  Cheek twitching as it pulls at his back.  They should be doing something else.  Anything else.  There's still endless chores that need to be done before they leave.  Still.  Hiding, like running away, has a tendency to feel better than facing responsibility.  As much as Lafayette wants to go home and understand what exactly had gone so wrong between he and his family that they never thought to even tell him about Pierre, the desire to turtle in the basement holds an almost equal appeal.

A knock on the door drags his attention away from his boyfriend.  It’s Pierre.  He's one of the few people who bothers to knock on that door.  Doesn't just open it up and shout down.  Lafayette asks what he wants, and Pierre replies with a slightly shouted, “I ordered a pizza.  It’s on the table.”

Nudging John to his feet, Lafayette helps him up the stairs.  Dizzy spells growing with frequency since they left the hospital.  While not on any pain medications stronger than the standard advil or aleve, John's current cocktail of pills did include anti-inflammatories and fever reducers.  Antibiotics that he'll be on until the doctors are confident he isn't going to pick up an infection just by sneezing wrong.  Vertigo and nausea have been spending just as much time occupying John's skull as thoughts of France.

He doesn't complain.

He keeps quiet, and just pushes forward.  Only saying something if the pain is bad enough that he can't just shiver through it on his own.  Thankfully, those days are growing fewer and far between.  He's getting better.

_Thank God._

Alex, Burr, and Madison are all in the kitchen when they reach the main floor.  Someone's already managed to find the plates and set the table.  Someone else has made a pitcher of iced tea.  Lafayette crinkles his nose at it, but doesn't complain.  Just helps John into his own seat before settling down himself.

"Since when has my home acquired a revolving door?"  he asks curiously as he squints at them all.

"Since you decided to abandon us all for France," Alex snaps back.  His point made almost immediately as Hercules lets himself inside with a loose bag over one shoulder.  He greets Pierre with la bis, and snatches a plate before sitting.

"We're coming back," John mumbles.  He takes the smallest bite humanly possible.  Chewing it slow.  Camel-like.  Lips pressed into a tight grimace.

Pierre clears his throat before Alex has a chance to reply.  "Perhaps a different topic would be better?"

Even if it would be, no one seems to have any discussion ready to share.  Alex continues glaring at his plate, and Madison and Aaron look like they're not sure where to start.  Hercules eventually sighs and reaches for the red pepper.  "When you're in France, John, you should make this lug take you to _Puy du Fou._  It's nice.  You'd like it.  They've got sword fights."

Lafayette waits for it to make John think of fencing, but it doesn’t seem to cross his mind.  John just tilts his head in curiosity, and asks “What is it?”

"It's a history themed theme park.  They've got castles and jousting and all kinds of different events.  Gondola rides and coliseum matches etc.  It's pretty amazing." And it’s not actually a bad idea.  John would love it.  Lafayette knows.

"We used to go yearly," Pierre reveals as he delicately folds his slide in half and bites into it.  "Gil tried to live there as a child."

Lafayette feels his cheeks burn as he shakes his head.  The others watching him with a kind of interested gleam in their eyes that doesn't bode well for anything, "I did not.  I was applying for a job."

Hercules snorts, "Yeah, only without the paperwork or interview."

It's not a game that Hercules really should be playing, and Lafayette's more than willing to discuss some of his friend's own dirty secrets.  But John's lips are pulling up in a smile, and some of the anger is leaving Alex's posture, and Lafayette feels himself backing down.  Let them pick on him if it'll help.  He'll take it.  "You will see," he says to John softly.  "The stables are impossible to resist."  He finishes it with a wink and John actually rolls his eyes.

That at least, is worth all the hell they've been given so far.

***

Hercules catches Lafayette's arm the moment lunch is over, gesturing with the bag he brought.  Pierre slips in to distract John and the others, giving them time to head up to Lafayette's room.  Prying eyes and ears turned away.  Hercules shuts the door behind them and sighs heavily.  Leaning against it as he turns his gaze toward the luggage amassed around the room.  "Kid's dad is a piece of work."

It's not what Lafayette expected him to say.  Lafayette's fingers twitch and he busies them.  Checking what's already packed and moving on autopilot to get the rest.  "What happened?"

"He came by the campus.  Wanted to talk to Peggy about John's room.  His expenses.  Peggy couldn't give him access without John's permission, and you know how hard it can be to get a hold of him..."

Because he didn’t have a phone.  And he hasn't gotten on a computer to check his emails.  John's dorm room in general had faded out of Lafayette's attention since the attack.  He thinks that Hercules said something about taking care of it, but he isn't sure.  "Surprised Peggy was even still on campus."

"End of year reports," Hercules replies with a shrug.  "She's staying a few days more, then she's going to move into my place."  He huffs before Lafayette can even voice an opinion.  "It's not like that.  We just both don't want to be RAs anymore. "Fair enough.  "Speaking of end of year...you talk to John about his finals?"

"The school told him he could take them before start of next semester."  It gave John more than enough time to heal and get his feet on the ground.  Truth be told, it was a break they'd been worried about getting.  John's grades hadn't been stellar during his first semester, and while they'd improved in the second—the school might not have felt compelled to give him a positive response.  

"In any case..." Hercules trails off.  Starts digging into his bag in order to pull out a small box and handed it over to Lafayette.  Taking it, Lafayette can't help but look inside.  “I really don’t think my mother needs to Froot Loops and M&Ms, Hercules.”

His friend's face twisted in disgust.  “Your mother really like sweets.”  She does.  But that didn’t mean they needed to smuggle this much back to home.  Lafayette’s almost certain Pierre’s done the same already.  Still.  He closes up the box before he works himself up.  It never did take much for him to get upset where his parents are concerned, and right now...he doesn’t need another excuse.

Patience, he reminds himself, is the key.  “You all right?” Hercules asks as Lafayette sets the box into his suitcase.  

"Fine,” Lafayette replies.  He wanders toward his dresser and pulls out a few t-shirts.  Some pants.  When he left home, he’d taken everything he could.  He never wanted to go back again.  He emptied out drawers and got rid of anything he couldn’t take with him.  His bedroom had been left like an empty crypt.  Not even a coffin to keep it filled.  

Desolate and lonely.

Just like he’d always found it when it was full.

Of all of his friends, he knows Hercules understands this better than most.  “You never like going home,” Hercules reminds quietly.

He really, really, doesn’t.  “Some things are more important.”  He doesn’t ask if Hercules knew.  If the answer’s ‘yes,’ it’ll only hurt more.  If it’s ‘no,’ he’ll have broken Pierre’s trust.  John had been different.  Will always be different.  Somehow, Lafayette never doubted that Pierre would mind John knowing.

Either way he keeps his head down.  Keeps his mouth shut.  Focuses on making this right, rather than letting things drag on more and more.  He needs to keep his mind locked into place.  Focus solely on moving forward and nothing else.  It's the only way he's going to get through this.

"If you say so.  But I wanted to ask you...what do you want us to do if John's dad keeps poking around?"

"He shouldn't once we're gone," and before they leave it'll be another thing Lafayette will tell Pierre about.  Whatever Henry's reasoning was, at this point it didn't matter.  He wasn't allowed anywhere near John.  And he wasn't going to gain access so long as John stayed in this household.  If Henry wanted to lie in wait, hoping to ambush John into signing that paperwork again, he'd be faced with opposition each time.  "If he does, just..."

There are countless ways that Lafayette wants to handle the situation.  There are endless paths that he could suggest Hercules take.  But at the end of it all, he forces himself to take a deep breath.  Let it out.  "Make a note of it...tell Pierre.  Don't tell John."

"Don't tell him his dad's looking for him?"

"His father is trying to get him to sign a document that would release claims to an estate."

"Release claims...? I thought that John got mugged?"

Lafayette bites his tongue.  Shakes his head.  "It's not about that."

Frankly, Lafayette forgot Hercules hadn't been involved with every part of this fiasco.  It's almost shameful that it slipped his mind.  So much has been happening.  He half wonders if Hercules knows that he got revenge for the _mugging_ in the first place... But his friend just sighs.  Shakes his head. "You people have too much shit going on." That's certainly true.  Forcing a smile, Lafayette finishes his bag.  Runs a hand through his hair awkwardly.  He doesn’t know what to say about any of this.  "You going to pull through all right?"

"I'll try," Lafayette mumbles.

All he can do is try.

***

The night before they're set to leave, Alex finally buries his hatchet.  He sits next to John on the couch and latches on as best he can without aggravating John's injuries.  He offers reminder after reminder for Lafayette to keep track of. John doesn’t speak French so you need to take it slow.  Insists on passing along words of wisdom, he gets overwhelmed if he’s forced to talk to too many people at once. And even makes a few obvious requests that Lafayette had no intention of ignoring in the first place, you’ll still keep in touch right? We can Skype?

Lafayette promises they'll keep in touch.  John even pokes Alex hard for assuming that they'd just drop off the face of the earth without saying anything to anyone.  "And we'll be back before school starts the next semester.  With plenty of time to spare too."  They'll be in France for a month, give or take.  Which still left a good deal of time before fall term started up again.

Maybe they'll only be there for a few days as it is.  It depends on how upset Lafayette gets with his parents and how well he can hold onto his temper.  Actually talking with them took more effort than Lafayette generally gave anything in his life. And yet.

He’s seen what families look like when there’s nothing but anger and frustration on both sides.  He doesn’t want that.  And his parents weren’t there when he was younger...but Pierre had been right.  They had always cared.  Maybe they cared badly.  Maybe they never had any idea how to show it.  Maybe there were a lot of problems from start to finish.  But his parents had always cared.

They need to talk.

“Besides, if I stay here one more day I am liable to kill someone,” Lafayette teases.  The joke falls flat.  From where he’s sitting, drinking down a latte like it’s the only thing in the world keeping him upright, Pierre seems more than ready to kill him for even suggesting it.  He hadn’t even meant it how it sounded.  But apparently, the joke stopped being a joke when he has a tendency to put people in the hospital.

Still.  There's an odd feeling of prolonged melancholy that permeates the air around them.  John curls up against Alex's chest and there's a brief moment where Lafayette isn't sure if he's making the right call.  Doing the right thing.  If he left now, John could stay with Alex and Aaron and Madison.  He'd be fine.  Lafayette could be back before too long.  They don't need to stay in France.  They could—

John'd never forgive him if he left like that.

Aaron even says as much when Lafayette abandons the living room for the kitchen.  Fixing together something he knows won't make John's stomach upset.  The doctors have been leery about the amount of NSAIDs John's been taking.  It seems like as soon as they get one thing squared away, another steps in to make matters complicated once more.  "It's a good idea," Aaron tells Lafayette anyway.  "Getting him out of here for a while."

"Do you think so, Little Burr?" Lafayette asks.  He doesn't look up.  Doesn't bother to give Aaron that courtesy.  Just keeps managing his bread fixings.  Slicing his banana.

"I think a change of pace might keep him from thinking too much on this." Aaron waves his hand in the air.  "He needs some time to get his head on straight."

A lack of stress could do wonders for their lives, Lafayette will give Aaron that.  Or it could open up doors to even more problems.  "You do too, you know," Aaron tells him next.  Quieter.  As if he's calculating the risks of saying such things.  Lafayette resists the urge to snort.  To roll his eyes.

To cause a fight or pitch a fit or do any of the otherwise inappropriate things he knows he could do.  Instead, Lafayette forces a smile. "How is Monsieur Madison, hm?"  For someone who'd been right next to him when he'd gone to talk to Jefferson personally, Lafayette hasn't had much of a chance to speak with him in detail.  To make sure he was all right. 

Madison's bruises have healed mostly.  Cracked ribs stitching back together.  He's still moving slowly.  But the biggest change, if it can be called that, is how he sits near Alex and John.  Careful and watching.  One hand on Alex's shoulders, always looking to see if John needs anything.

"He's sore," Aaron admits.  "It's more than that though...guilty almost.  As if this is his fault."

"It's not."  If there's one thing that Lafayette's certain of, it's the fact that Madison wasn't at fault for anything that happened.  If Madison wanted to leave dealing, that was his choice to make.  No one else's.  Jefferson didn't have the right to pressure him into it again, nor try to use his muscle to convince Madison that he needed to continue.  Something Madison made abundantly clear when he sent a rocketing fist into Jefferson's stomach right before they'd thrown him into the street for the police to find. 

"You will help him?" Because that's the only thing that Lafayette cares about really.  He can help John and he can help himself.  But he can't handle Madison too.

Aaron almost seems offended by the question though.  "Of course.  He's my friend."  Simple as that really.

Finishing up his platter, Lafayette carries it into the other room.  Sets it down and squeezes under John's outstretched legs.  He feels like something's breaking.  He doesn't really know what it is yet, but it feels like they're dragging themselves backward faster than they're ever going forward.

He doesn't know what to do.

Alex says goodbye to John by sobbing into his good shoulder. Madison actually kisses John's brow.  Aaron ruffles his hair.  Lafayette is given a bone-crushing embrace from Alex, though when John's been taken care of.  One that shows no signs of stopping.  He squeezes and squeezes and makes Lafayette promise that they have to come back.

They have to come back, and they have to stay in touch.

It doesn't seem to matter how many times Lafayette says that they will.  His reassurances fall on deaf ears.  Still, he repeats the same words time and time again.  He whispers his promises to all three of his new friends.  Has Hercules affirm his conviction.  Does what he can.

When the door closes, and it’s just them, it feels like the world is slowing to a crawl.  Spinning so unbearably slow Lafayette doesn’t know what to do or say about any of it.  He and John go upstairs.  Try to finish.  Try to make things right.

"I'm surprised that you have a passport, lapin," Lafayette tells John as they zip up the last bag.  Toothbrushes are secure.  Clothes are set.  John's medications are near the top of his carry on so if he needs to take a sedative on the plane he can.  Pierre's organized it so their seats are next to each other, but there's always a degree of separation when it comes to the first class seats.

They'll be together. But. Separate.

"Few years ago..." John starts.  He pauses awkwardly in the middle of the phrase, and when Lafayette looks up, he's fidgeting with the edge of his cuff.  "Thought about leaving the country."

He doesn’t continue.  It's not entirely important.  That he even has an updated passport is the key takeaway of this whole matter.  Holding out his hand, Lafayette motions for John to join him. They sit at the headboard, side by side.  John's brow digging into Lafayette's collarbone.  They're leaving in a few hours.  They could both probably do with some rest.  The six hour time difference was going to be difficult enough as it was.  Still.

John's not going to go to sleep, and Lafayette can't imagine he will either.  "What're your parents like?" John asks him quietly.

"Pierre told you, did he not?" He'd been certain of it, in any case.  John hums quietly and twists.  Nudging him hard with his brow ridge.  It digs into his bones, and Lafayette shifts.  Trails his hands down John's side.

John sighs heavily.  Eye-lids fluttering.  "What do _you_ think your parents are like?"

Lafayette supposes it's a fair question to ask, all things considered.  Pierre's in love with his parents.  And yet Lafayette's the one that's going back.  To figure out what he's supposed to be doing.  To get an answer that he should have gotten years ago.  Putting off the conversation had led to never knowing about Pierre...how many other conversations did he never have with his parents about things that mattered to him?

"I never knew them," Lafayette tells his boyfriend.  "They were both working.  They worked longer hours, and with fewer breaks, than anyone else I knew."

"Is that why you call your father Père, and not Papa or Dad?" Look at John.  Figuring out proper etiquette when it comes to familial relations.  Well done.  At his surprised look, John just snorts.  "I talked to Hercules." Of course.  Of course he did.

And Hercules talked to him in return.  Telling family stories, no doubt.  Giving his own spin on things.  Lafayette half wonders when they had the time to go over anything.  Probably while Pierre was getting the police to give them all permission to leave the country, and Lafayette's involvement with Jefferson well and truly buried.

There'd been a few days where Lafayette had asked someone to stay with John while he managed his affairs.  Apparently Hercules had decided to become chatty.

Admitting the truth, though, comes quiet.  Resigned.  He mumbles, "I used to call him Pa," and he hopes he won't be judged for it.  With everything between them, Lafayette doubts that'll be the case.

If he expects that to be the end of the questions, he'll be disappointed.  "What changed?" John asks.  Whispers softly through the air.

"I...was not a good child."  He didn't understand how proper families worked.  Hardly noticed that his was different until he spent time with his classmates at their homes.  Realized that they were close with their parents.  Enjoyed the time they had with their parents.  Lafayette can't remember ever feeling that way.

Children are cruel.  They laughed and mocked.  Pointed to his family's wealth and told him it was the reason that he didn't have any friends.  Family.  Called Pierre his Au Pere and then ridiculed him for needing a nanny at his age.  No amount of explaining that Pierre wasn't that meant a thing.

Hercules had been the only person who didn't argue with him.  Laugh at him.  Call him names.  He'd been his friend, pure and simple.  And yet, Lafayette still didn't understand why when Hercules' parents came to visit, he was treated like the center of their world.  Why they always went to him time and again, and yet Lafayette's parents couldn't do the same.

John prodded him in the side.  "My parents would only come if required.  Pierre would insist, demand, every birthday.  The important Holidays.  But any other moment seemed few and far between.  I...enjoyed discovering how to draw them to me."

It was the exact opposite for John.  Where John kept his head down and worked hard in a vain effort to win his father's love and appreciation, Lafayette had learned early on that success wasn't going to be enough for his parents.  Good grades and accolades led to empty bleachers and private celebrations with Pierre or Hercules.

Getting into a fist fight and needing to be picked up by the police?  That led to his parents coming every time.  They had to.  It was the law.  They'd pick him up, and sometimes even laugh over the ridiculousness of the charges.  They'd mock and deride the police and they'd pat him on the head.  Remind him that they loved him. They tended not to say it any other time.

"I was arrested for causing a fight one night.  Pierre came to pick me up.  I refused to leave with him."  He'd sat there, digging his heels in, for hours.  Hours and hours while Pierre begged him to just sign the paperwork and go.  The police watching the exchange with growing expressions of concern.

 _Concern_.  For their local delinquent who was too wealthy for his own good.  Who had no business starting fights and causing a fuss.  Who would rather be in jail then go home with the person who so obviously cared for him.

"They didn't come?" John asked him.

"Two days later, my father called the station.  Told me he was too busy to come get me, but to go home and he'll deal with me there.  He never came."  Lafayette went back to the house.  Waited for someone to come.  No one except Hercules or Pierre did.  "I applied to this school afterward.  As far away as I could be."  

An email telling Lafayette how disappointed his father was in him was not what he'd been looking for.  Nor was it any justification to try to do better.  He wasn’t his father's employee.  Not his staff.  He didn't need a reprimand in his file.  He just wanted his father.

“If he’s a dick,” John tells Lafayette slowly.  “I can always hit him for you.”  It makes Lafayette snort.  Bite his lip.  Try not to laugh out loud.  His shoulders shake as he hugs John even closer, grateful that he’s here at least.

That he wants to be here.  And more than that, when Lafayette needed someone the most--John was there for him.  Will be there for him.  Even if going to France right now is an inconvenience John could likely do without.

He was John’s number one.

And put everything else aside, that he’s standing _at_ his side is enough to carry Lafayette through whatever’s going to come next.

 _“Je t’aime, mon lapin, John Laurens.  Je t’aime.”_ Once, when Lafayette was a child, he’d been convinced that nobody would ever love him.  That nobody would ever see him, and all of his defects, as acceptable.  That they’d just scoff and walk away like everyone else in his life.

But when John stares at him with wide eyes, Lafayette starts to wonder if he’d merely needed to wait for it.  If after all this time...this was what he’d been hoping to receive.

He thinks he understands how his parents felt.  He would do anything to make sure that John was okay.  Even if it meant leaving people he cared about far behind.


	11. Chapter 11

“Gilbert!” Lafayette’s feet come to an abrupt stop.  Even Pierre stops short.  John’s grip shifts around his luggage, but he twists about.  Trying to see who it was.  

Lafayette’s a formidable wall to get around, however.  Has even leaned forward to hiss at Pierre.  “You said that—”

“—I didn’t know they’d come.”  John steps to the side.  And.  Oh.  There’s no denying them.

Marie and Michel Lafayette are, quite possibly, the most conventionally attractive people John’s ever seen.  Marie’s hair is beautifully styled.  Curls done up in an intricate arrangement that must have taken at least an hour to set right.  Her makeup is en pointe.  Eyeliner etched in under her lids.  Shadow and angling just so.

John doesn’t know any of the official terms for anything, but Marie stands nearly six feet tall with just kitten heels and he thinks she must be a model.  She’s got a form fitting dress and a light jacket that probably costs more than John’s rent back when he was 15.  

Michel is just the same.  Skin more fair than his son's, but still darker than Marie's, Michel seems to have been born with those clothes on.  The crisp lines of his business shirt and sleeves slide perfectly in line with the planes of his body.  His slacks grip his legs nicely, and John feels his cheeks flushing just by looking at them.  No wonder their son is gorgeous.

His gene pool is blessed.

Marie strides forward, smiling grandly, painted lips spread wide as she approaches.  She reaches Pierre first, and they kiss.  Left then right.  Rapid French falling between them so John can’t hope to understand.  He fidgets uncomfortably as Lafayette’s back straightens.  Jaw clenches.  

“Laf?” John whispers uncertainly.  His boyfriend looks half ready to eviscerate his mother where she’s standing.  Even without saying a word, John can hear the questions he wants to ask. 

_Why didn’t you tell me that Pierre was sick?_

_Why didn’t you give me that right to choose?_

_Why did you let me hate you and never tried to work anything out with me?_

_Why did you lie?_

Michel kisses Pierre’s cheeks as Marie holds her hands up.  “Gilbert,” she smiles and steps in.  John holds his breath as he watches, but Lafayette doesn’t argue.  Doesn’t pull away.  He leans forward and kisses her cheeks.  Calls her _Maman,_ and lets her cup his face.  She’s talking to him in an endless list of French that John’s start to realize is going to be a problem.  He can vaguely understand some of it.   _How have you been?_ Is one of the phrases that he’s able to furrow out.

Alex had tried endlessly to get him up to speed prior to his leaving.  John even had a study book in his bag for when he got nervous and needed something to read.  He understood the basics.  The principle.  Enough loanwords in spanish helped.  But it didn’t stop John from feeling anxiety pooling in his stomach.

He wants his phone.  Or at least _a_ phone.  He could text Alex and ask him what to do.  What to say.  Marie spots John over Lafayette’s shoulder and smiled at him.  And, though John’s mother was not nearly be beauty that Lafayette’s was, for half a moment John almost saw her in Marie’s face.  She steps forward, and under Lafayette’s watchful gaze, kisses John’s cheeks.

“You are...John, yes?” she asks him.

“Yes-uh... _oui?”_ he tries.  She smiles, like she thinks he’s cute, and he flushes even more.  Michel takes her place soon enough though.  Kissing his cheeks too.  

“It is good to meet you.”  English doesn’t sit naturally on either of their tongues, too formal and stilted.  But they’re making a better effort than he has in French so he just nods awkwardly and prays that things get easier here on out.

With his boyfriend’s lips clenched in a tight smile, John didn’t have any idea what he was meant to say or how to proceed.  He has a brief moment of panic, one which he shares a desperate look to Pierre.  And Pierre, gracious and kind and savior of men, steps forward.  Says, “I didn’t think you were going to be able to make it,” as he slides an arm around John’s body gently.  Guiding him toward the exit and moving the party forward.  

Pierre keeps his hold on John’s shoulders light.  Careful to not apply too much pressure to his damaged limbs.  But his mere presence is comfortable.  Relaxing.  John settles slightly against him.  Losing the conversation as Michel and Marie quickly start talking in tandem.

They have endless questions.  Eager to get involved and to talk to them.  To share stories and to ask them for information.  John misses most of it as they devolve into French.  Going back and forth with themselves and Pierre.  Occasionally attempting to pull Lafayette into the conversation as well, and getting rebuffed almost every time.

While Lafayette isn't outwardly rude, he isn't nearly as verbose as he could be. He glares at the back of his parents’ heads while  in the car.  Gives one word replies, and stays tense, awkward, and uncomfortable the whole time.  John slips his hand into Lafayette’s and stared at him.  

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

“We should go home,” Lafayette replies.  He doesn’t mean it.  But his tension doesn’t leave.  His uncomfortability hasn’t lessened.  Pierre tries to keep the conversation going.  Navigating it with what is obviously years of practice.  But as quiet and as uncomfortable as John normally is in groups of people he’s never met, even he can tell that Marie and Michel are starting to flag.

The Lafayette mansion is almost three hours outside of Paris.  

They are quiet for almost half of the entire trip there.

Even when they arrive, the awkwardness continues.  John barely has a chance to marvel at the beauty of the house and grounds before he’s led inside.  Marie leading the tour while insisting that he can call them ‘Maman’ and ‘Papa’ if he likes.  He refuses.  If Lafayette doesn't call them that, neither will he.  Instead, he politely calls them by their first names, and both of them seem to rally around that as a fine thing indeed. Almost seeming _pleased_ by his attempts.  Everything feels strange.

Still...they’re pleasant enough.  They take John and lead him about the house.  Show him everything they can think of.  Always stopping to see if John’s doing all right, if he’s comfortable.  Does he need to rest?  His brain feels like it’s buzzing after the first hour.  But eventually they let him retire to the guest room.  And just as soon as they depart, Lafayette relocates him back to his childhood-bedroom instead.

It’s.

Barren.

John doesn’t know what he’s expecting.  Even back at their house there aren’t posters on the walls.  There aren’t any overt decorations or proud moments of teenage rebellion.  But he expected Lafayette's childhood bedroom to be more...homey.  Something that reflected the person who lived there.  But instead, the space feels clinical.  Walls coated with a cream colored paint and floors a fine dark wood.  A neatly made bed sits in the center.  Great canopy looming with big fluffy pillows set at the headboard.  Honestly, there's almost more pillows than bed, but there it set.  A perfectly orchestrated production that's all very...tidy.

“When I left home, I wanted nothing to do with them,” Lafayette explains as he kicks his bag to the side.  He’s tense.  Upset.  Inches away from hitting something.  He hasn’t looked this fierce or frustrated in a long time, and John half wonders if he should be doing something.  Saying something.

He tries pulling his right hand into a fist, but his fingers are too stiff to cooperate.  He can’t fight Lafayette right now.  As much as he wants to.  He just can’t.  Reaching out, John lightly rests his hand on Lafayette’s arm.  “Hey…”

“You didn’t even see the Eiffel Tower,” Lafayette mutters.  John hadn’t thought he’d noticed.  As they left Paris, John had occasionally tried looking around.  Seeing what was out the window.  But no one had told Marie to stop driving.  Had mentioned the Tower.  

He can’t be mad about it if they never told her to stop.  “I’ll see it another time,” John offers.

Besides...they’ve _got_ time.  It’ll give them something to do if Lafayette get’s caught up in an emotional maelstrom inside the house.  John wouldn’t mind going out and inspecting France some without Marie and Michel.  They could even make a few days out of it.

Lafayette still didn’t look convinced, however.  Still kept scowling and grumbling in French under his breath.  Sighing, John glances around the room.  Trying to think of what they should do.  It’s more than obvious Lafayette wants, and likely needs, space between him and his parents.  But right now, there’s nothing that John can think of that’ll accommodate that for long.

Biting his lip, though, he rubs awkwardly at his arm.  “You all right?” Lafayette asks him.

“My arm hurts.”  The flight had been rough.  Pressure squeezing down on his shoulder and muscles.  Bones creaking and fingers twitching as he tried to alleviate the pain.  He hadn't been able to get comfortable in his seat.  Kept shifting and trying to find a better place to rest.  At one point he lay on Lafayette's shoulder, hissing at turbulence and grateful for the sedative he hadn't wanted to take.

Turning toward him, Lafayette nods his head slowly.  Holding out his hand for John to take.  Then, with a soft smile, he leads John to the en suite bathroom.  If the Waldorf had been excessive, this was just inappropriate.  It’s not hard for John to understand why Lafayette had had such a disconnect with his wealth at the hotel.  His home was entirely unbelievable.  

The bathroom hosted a tub big enough for three people, a walk in shower with a built in chaise, and even a his/her sink.  “Why do you need a his/her sink in your childhood bedroom?” John asks.  Lafayette shrugs.  It’s one of the many things he doesn’t have a particular good answer for.  Nor something he particularly seems to _want_ to have a good answer for.  

Instead, Lafayette flicks the knob on the faucet for the bath tub and he fills it slowly.  Reaching out toward John, he starts to unhook the strap of the sling.  The buttons of John’s shirt.  It’s nice.  Standing still and letting Lafayette take care of him.  Nice.  The fabric slides off his left shoulder.  It is eased down his right.  

John’s eyes close.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  He took some advil not too long ago, and he can feel the edge coming off the pain.  Not much, but just enough that he can keep from curling in on himself.  Whimpering in misery like a child.  Just enough to kill the electric sparks that had been zinging through his fingertips.  

Lafayette reaches for his button.  Unhooks it and the zipper.  Slides his pants down his hips.  The shoes he works on slowly.  But he nudges John to move.  Lift one foot up.  Then the other.  When he’s standing naked before Lafayette, wearing only the thick wrap around his arm and the cuff on his wrist, he listens as Lafayette undresses too.

As slightly damp hands gently guide him toward the tub.  Step up. Up. Up and over.  Ease down.  The water is perfect.  After all this time, Lafayette apparently still knows how to make his bath work.  His boyfriend spreads his legs out.  Guides John so he’s floating in the tub.  One arm holding him steady while the other makes sure there’s no pressure against his shoulder.

Through it all, John keeps his eyes shut.  

Lets himself just be pushed.  Moved.  Guided from place to place.  It’s comfortable and gentle, and it’s relaxing.  Everything about this is relaxing.  A cap opens and John listens as something is poured into the water.  Lavender.  It smells nice.  Floats up into his nostrils and makes him hum.

Lafayette’s hands stroke along his skin.  Up and down.  “They can be overwhelming,” Lafayette tells John.  A crank turns and the water stops filling.  The tub is finally full.  A few drips keep dripping though.  More and more and more.

_S’nice._

“They are...easily excited.  And they are...they want to have a relationship, I think.  With you.  Me.”

John hums.  They spoke about things once.  Lafayette talking to him in French.  Him responding in Spanish.  They talked about things that they never wanted to actually talk to the other person about.  Sometimes, John wonders if this was what they were getting to all along.  If actually talking about things made them better in the end.  If opening those doors fixed problems before they started.  Before everything was made so much worse.

“I don’t know how to have a relationship with them.” He touches John’s body.  Stroking him gently.  Sweetly.  He runs his hands along John’s chest.  His neck.  His hair.  John’s curls sink beneath the surface and become a floating mass.  Thick and heavy.  Each touch seems like a massage along his scalp.

If Lafayette wanted a relationship with his parents, John wasn’t the best person to go to for advice.  He hardly knew how to manage his own life, let alone someone else’s.  His father and him were an example that no child should ever want to represent.  And Pierre...Pierre might be the closest person in John’s life who ever approached the position of being a ‘parent’ figure.  And they’d only known each other for nine months.  Not exactly the best way to advertise a relationship.

Unlike at home, the bathroom is quiet.  Entirely insulated from any sound elsewhere in the house.  John can’t hear where Lafayette’s parents are.  Where anyone in the house is.  It’s just them in this slightly creepy bathroom and— John sits up.  Lets his butt sink to the bottom.  The water’s up to his chin, and some even gets in his mouth.

He shuffles about, trying not to pull his arm and shoulder too much.  “Your house is really creepy.”  It is not what Lafayette’s looking for.  He wants to talk about his parents and how weird it is here.  But now that John’s thinking about it, he can’t _not_ think about it.  It’s extremely creepy.

His boyfriend isn’t even upset.  He tosses his head back and laughs, _“Mon dieu,_ it _is_ isn’t it?” Lafayette asks.  “I used to run from one side of the house to the other _screaming._ Just to listen to the echo.”

“Was it loud?”

“Pierre almost killed me once, I think.  He was so upset.  So did half the staff.  A few of them threatened to hit me here.” He displays a swatting motion.

“Anyone ever do it?”

“A couple, but I probably deserved it.  I took my bike inside and ran it through the house, all over the floors and carpets.  I tried to go down the stairs, but I fell.  One woman, Joan, she found me at the foot of the steps and asked if I was all right.  And then she saw the mess and she swatted me right here.”  He taps his cheek as evidence.

John kisses it.

There’s a pause.  Lafayette’s eyes wide and mouth parted a little.  Damp curls drooping slightly.  He stares at John for a long while, but then shakes his head.  Licks his lips.  “Um… there was this one time that—” John kisses him again.

This time on the lips.  He floats closer.  Lets his body settle more firmly against Lafayette’s.  It’s too quiet in this room.  Too lonely.  Loneliness seems to settle in on every part of this house.  For all it’s grandeur and opulence...it feels detached.  As if it’s not quite connecting with reality. It reminds him of his father’s red house in South Carolina.  The big one that sat on fields and fields and fields.  Chalk under his nails and a kind of yearning for _more_ that never came.  

Back then, the one thing that John had really wanted was a friend.  Someone he could spend all his time with.  Someone who filled the silence.  He’d had a brief foray with Marty...but real companionship hadn’t happened for him until well into his teenage years.  When he sat down in his school cafeteria and Alex sat across from him.   _Hello, my name is Alexander Hamilton.  Let’s be friends._

_Okay._

Lafayette’s lucky he had Hercules.  Eventually.  Lucky there was someone to fill the void of his days.  But the bathroom’s so quiet.  And the bedroom’s probably just as quiet.  “Did you have a music player?” John asks as he curls his right arm in front of his body.  He holds it there like it were still in the sling, and uses his left hand to cup the back of Lafayette’s head.

His boyfriend hums.  Vibrations resonating off his lips.  Across John’s face.  Into his core.  His dick is growing hard between them, and John sighs as he feels it touch.  They haven’t had sex since before the attack.  And _fuck_ if John’s not fully intending to get laid while he’s in France of all places.

He grinds down.  Whimpering as the warm water splashes, but there’s just enough friction to feel nice.  “Would turn it up loud.  Get it in the whole house system...drive everyone mad.”  Boredom, John thinks.  Lafayette had said he’d wanted his parents attention, but in the end, it was really _boredom_ that brought Lafayette to that point.  He’d been utterly and hopelessly _bored._

Wanting desperately for someone to notice him.  Someone to pay attention or to talk to him.  To be his friend.   _God bless Hercules Mulligan._

“Worst thing you did?” John asks.  He doesn’t necessarily mean the arrests.  Just, anything that Lafayette thought was particularly worth talking about.

Kissing Lafayette before he has a chance to speak, he swallows the response.  John wants to kiss everywhere.  Wants to touch.  Wants to find some semblance of normalcy.  The house feels empty.  Haunted.  Lifeless.  Like there’s a body with no soul inside.   Walls and a roof, but nothing else.  It doesn’t feel like a home.

Doesn’t feel like how their house feels.  How there’s blankets over the backs of their couches and chairs.  Throw pillows.  Pictures.  School books and school bags.  There’s keys on the counter and tchotchkes on the end stands. Tokens here or there.  Clothes in the hamper.  Fencing materials downstairs. Their house felt like an actual place people lived.  Not a hotel room or a stopping point.  With perfect towels and still wrapped soap.  

Lafayette folds his hands around John’s thighs.  He pulls them apart and moves to encourage John to straddle him.  To feel their cocks press against each other.  John sighs.  Fire tingling up his groin.  He presses down on Lafayette’s body.  Undulates slightly.  His back twinges and his arm—

 _“Je t'emmène au lit.”_ Lafayette whispers against his ear.  John blinks rapidly.  Trying to clear his vision.  Understand.  But Lafayette’s moving.  Holding out his hand.  Pulling John’s body up and out of the tub.  Water splashes along the sides, but Lafayette holds him.  Keeps him from falling.  Makes sure he doesn’t slip on the tile floor.  Heated, of course.  Toes not once catching a chill.  

Lafayette is rarely on the bottom.  Rarely puts himself here.  But he’s here now and he’s balancing John so John just has to sit on top of him.  Rock back and forth and let his eyes flutter.  Lafayette steadies him always.  Keeps him from straining his injuries and even when he does—there’s an almost familiar push and pull that feels _right._

They need lube if they’re going to continue.  But John doubts Lafayette has any tucked in the pristine dresser drawer.  Doubts that there’s even the slightest chance that this will be convenient and easy.  But it feels nice to rub against each other.  Even if their skin sticks from the bathwater, and their fingers grip too tight.

Lafayette sits up against the mountain of pillows and he pulls John forward.  Eases him carefully.  Trails a light hand over the scar forming on John’s back.  Sliding around the cut without actually touching it.  Sparks flash across John’s vision.   _“You’re beauitful,”_ Lafayette whispers.

His hand slides up.  Tangling into John’s hair and absorbing the moisture.  Water’s a terrible lubricant, but Lafayette moves down anyway.  Touches John’s hole as their lips meet.  There’s a spark of pain.  Discomfort.  He pushes in anyway, and John hisses.  Distracted for once, by something that’s not his arm.  Not a reminder of pain.

 _"J'ai mis le feu au jardin de ma mère, une fois,"_ Lafayette whispers against his hair.  The fingers keep sliding in.  Twinge after growing twinge.  John’s breath rattles in his chest.  He can feel his body shaking.  He whimpers, and Lafayette undulates underneath him.  Pulls him back down onto Lafayette’s probing fingers.  Nipping at his lips.   _"J'ai jeté l'oeuf Fabergé de mon père."_  Lafayette’s hand squeezes the back of John’s head.  Pulls him in tighter.

The fingers have slid inside now.  Two digits pressing deep within John’s body.  He gasps.  He’s shaking.  Trembling.  Eyes fluttering.  Fever hot.  He rocks backward and forward even as the skin pulls dry and tight.  John feels like he’s burning.  His heart is beating out a drumroll in his chest.

“No entiendo…” John manages to whisper.  “No soy—” he cuts off.  Whimpering.  Sparks flash behind his eyelids.  Lafayette never did have trouble finding his prostate.  Finding and pushing it.  Encouraging John to explode.  Sweat drips from his brow.  Slides down his face. The fingers are removed and John is shifted.  Feels something blunt pressing against his hole.  He sighs.

Limbs relaxing as best they can.  Sprawling over Lafayette’s body.  The head pushes against him.  He replies by remaining tight and unyielding.  But the smooth skin is just as determined.  Lafayette presses closer.  Keeps kissing John even as his dick breaks the seal.  Glides in.   _"Tu es à moi."_

Sparks are bursting across John’s consciousness.  Lafayette kisses him soundly.  John’s only prayer, is that sometime before he completely loses his mind, he’s allowed to come first.  He gasps again, and relishes each and every slide within his body.  Every motion, welcoming him home.

***

Dinner is served in a dining room that looks far too ornate to be a real person’s home.  Even John’s childhood house didn’t quite come with this level of excess.  Gold glinted off of chandeliers, candelabras (yes, two of them!) adorned the table, paintings hung on the wall.  It all screamed of a decadence that hardly fit in with what kind of person Lafayette was in general.

While Lafayette was always neat and tidy at home, and obviously still just as wealthy as he was now, he’d never been one to seem interested in the near renaissance style that his parents conveyed.  He hardly seemed to care one bit for fine art, much preferring nouveau riche phenomenons.  He didn’t sit stiffly in his chair, instead preferring to lounge.

It’s seduction in a club versus seduction over wine and candles.  Two very different ways to approach the topic.  John’s fairly certain he prefers the former.  Dinner comes _served_ to them.  And no one is particularly surprised by any of it.  They just go about their business continuing on with whatever conversation John’s been well and truly left out of.

Lafayette cuts his meat for him without question.  Tells him what is what on his plate, and what to avoid.  He steals olives from John’s meal and he sometimes strokes John’s spine with the hand he rests along the back of John’s chair.  Otherwise, he seems invested in eating and not saying anything.  It’s a rehash of their disastrous ride from the airport.

Physically, at least John feels a bit more refreshed.  The bath and post bathing experiences had been _lovely._ And Lafayette had rubbed lotion around the scars to help the skin from puckering too much.  The doctors had said he could start trying to take the sling off soon.  See how it felt without being assisted.

They had no answers as to when he’d be able to use his hand properly again, though.  Just said healing took time.  Would continue to take time.  He’d need to practice and work at it.  Attend physical therapy and not develop bad habits.  

“Pierre says you were...mugged?” Michel asks after a third course was brought to the table.  Each course came with small little niblets, never properly satisfying on their own.  Eating, John has been informed, is a long process in France.  Food is meant to be appreciated.  And so he best appreciate it.  

For a moment, though, John’s not sure how he’s supposed to reply.   _Well, actually I got jumped by my ex-dealer’s cronies because they were pissed I wasn’t buying and my friend quit dealing._ “Sort of?” he offers instead, looking toward Lafayette uncertainly.

His boyfriend finishes chewing his food.  Adds on, “John has a habit of making enemies out of people who do not like sobriety as much as he does now.”  Ouch.  

John’s face flushes dark.  Skin heating up.  He turns back to his meal and continues to poke at it awkwardly.  Watching as the tines of his fork slide into a rogue tomato.  He can hear his heartbeat echoing in his ears, and from the awkward stillness at the table, John half wonders if Lafayette had meant to make drug use and abuse a point of contentions early on.

The smile on Michel’s face has edged closer toward a grimace.  Marie takes a dainty sip of her wine before setting it back down on the table.  “Be polite, Gilbert.  He’s your guest.”  

 _Fuck._  John and Pierre meet each other’s eyes.  Quite unintentionally matching each other’s expressions of resigned defeat immediately.  It’s like waving a banner in front of a bull.  Lafayette takes the opportunity and he latches onto it.  “Do _not_ tell me how I should speak about my boyfriend.”

Marie snaps something at him in French.  

Lafayette snaps back.

Michel says something too.  The three of them start arguing.  Back and forth back and forth.  It’s like watching a tennis match.  Double team versus a single player.  Up goes the ball and slams across the net and it’s a game of running as fast as you can and trying to get to as many points as possible.

John stares at his glass of water.  Wishing, quietly, for something more.  He’s not allowed to drink alcohol until he’s well and truly off his meds.  While nothing should conflict too much, the doctors had ground it in home—he can’t abuse his body more than necessary.  He needs to take it easy.

From where he’s sitting across the table, Pierre is having very little trouble with his glass of wine.  He finishes it swiftly.  Motions for one of the staff members to return, and makes a motion for something else.  John misses it.  Too caught up in listening to Lafayette shout something at his father that his father clearly didn’t like.

His mother cut in next.  A hand slapped against the table.  Silverware bounced.  John caught his glass before it could wobble.  He’s never seen anything quite like this in his life.  For all of his animosity toward his father, he’d never once thought about raising his voice in open argument against the man.  Especially not at dinner.  In front of guests. 

He never thought about shouting in general - the car had been an outlier and not a standard.  And yet,  that’s exactly what Laf’s doing now.  For him, John knew it’d be a confirmed way to get his teeth knocked in.  To get his head smashed against the side of a—John pushes away from the table.

Silence snaps through the room like a rubberband.  It doesn’t matter how many people are looking at him, he’s walking out.  He can hear Lafayette call his name, but he can’t get his feet to stop.  Can’t make himself pause and wait for him.

Someone, Michel, mutters something and Lafayette snaps at the man.  Marie replies, and the argument continues anew.  This time, however, it fades to the back of John’s consciousness.  He leaves the room and wanders out into the hall, forcing himself to breathe.  “C’mon,” Pierre tells him, sneaking up behind.  “I know of a good place to sit down.”  

The older man doesn’t wait for John’s confirmation, just keeps walking.  Past John, and away from the shouting at the dinner table.  “I’m sorry,” John offers Pierre quietly.

“Don’t be,” Pierre replies.  “Of everyone in this household...you have the least to feel bad about.”

Maybe.  But John’s not entirely sure if that’s the case.

He follows Pierre outside.  Stepping into the fresh summer night air.  Fairy lights are planted in the ground, and they guide their way.  John hadn’t had a chance to see this part of the property earlier, but now he takes the time to look around.  There are lots of trees and grass.  A gazebo even, off in the back.

John can even hear a crick of sorts.  Something babbling that Pierre leads him to effortlessly.  A couple of benches are built into the ground.  Solid and sturdy.  Overlooking not only the crick that John heard, but a small pond.  

Bats flutter about catching mosquitoes, dancing in the evening air.  “C’mere love,” Pierre offers.  Sitting at the bench and patting the seat.  It’s probably not what Pierre had in mind, but the idea of sitting upright right now is a little too much for John to think about.  Instead, he sits on the ground.  Rests his head against Pierre’s knee, and tries to calm himself down.  

No one shouting out here. Whatever it was that Lafayette wanted to scream at his parents for, John isn’t there to listen.  “They’re not going to hit him,” Pierre swears.  “He’ll be all right.” John closes his eyes, and tries not to think about it. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Lafayette once again confuses HIV/AIDS and he uses it as a weapon to hurt his parents. He's lashing out and being very immature about it. He misuses it, and is immediately corrected.

There was a time.  Just a short time.  Back when Lafayette had been very small, that he thought his parents honestly and truly loved him.  He was _excited_ whenever they came home.  He was _ecstatic_ when they paid him attention.  He used to cry when they left.  Beg them to let him come too.  He could be good.  He could be quiet.

Once, he even packed a bag.   _See?  I’m so small.  You won’t even notice me._  They used to pat his head.  Tell him that they need to go and for something important.  Work was important.  But stay home.  Be good.  They couldn’t wait to see him again.

Lafayette gave them time of course.  He sat still and he waited.  He did his chores.  He made good grades.  He cleaned up after himself and he did everything that he could.  He held his head up high.  He did everything just right.  And it still wasn’t enough.

He was never enough.

But birthdays had been fun.  Whether Pierre threatened to kill them if they didn’t show up, or if they honestly remembered the date, his parents always came home for his birthday.  They always made a festival out of it.  Invited his classmates.  They got him countless presents and flowers.  They filled the house with music and laughter.  Hired clowns and fun games.  Bouncy castles and big cakes.  

They would do everything they could during those days to prove he was their number one.  And for _years,_ it was easy to fall victim to that thought.  It was easy to believe that they were telling the truth.  

Lafayette will never forget the day that Marie Antoinette turned to him and asked him “What does it matter if your parents are there _one_ day out of the year?  If they’re not there the rest of the time?”

He didn’t have an answer for her then, and he doesn’t have an answer for her now.  Ten years later.  Watching as John flees the room because _something_ was too much.  Not hard to guess what exactly.  Not hard to flip the blame.  To clench his fists and gnash his teeth and glare at his parents.  Who had never bothered to give a damn before, and certainly don’t give a damn now.

Who are only arguing with him because they found his tone distasteful.  They don’t know who he is.  They don’t know anything about him and— _“You shouldn’t treat him like that,”_  Père tells him sternly.  Pierre’s left the room too.  Chasing after John as though the fire’s at his back.  He’ll catch up with John.  Make it right.  Calm him down like he always does.

Always cleaning up after messes that Lafayette’s parents make.  Always dealing with their bull shit.   _“Don’t tell me how to treat my boyfriend,”_ Lafayette spits back.  He glares at his father.  Can feel his fists forming at his sides.  He had fantasized of this conversation taking place.  He’d dreamed of the dialogue they’d say.  The call and response.  The mature and capable discussion that they all should be having.

Not this.  

Not boiled emotions and angry feelings.  Lashing out with hatred and frustration.  Well.  perhaps not hatred.  Lafayette doesn’t _hate_ his parents.  But he cannot ignore the fury that bubbles whenever he thinks about their lies.  Their plans and deceits.  How they ruined everything.  Over and over again.

His mother clears her throat.   _“He’s recovering from—”_

 _“—You have no idea what he’s recovering from,”_ Lafayette snaps back.  He’s spoken to them about John.  Several times.  He knows Pierre has too.  But the childish urge to deny, deny, deny, keeps rising up.  The desire to smash and break and destroy won’t abate.

It’s not fair to them, but it’s certainly not fair to him.  One of the servants is loitering on the outskirts of the room.  He hates seeing them there.  Hates everything about it.  He doesn’t care how much his parents donated to charity every year, there is something distinctly not _French_ about having this much decadence and using servants to manage it all.

Maman scowls at him.   _“You are not the only one who tells us about your life, let alone_ his _life.”_

If that’s not a good enough segue, then nothing else is.  Lafayette slaps his hand to the table.   _“Yes, do please tell me how someone else informs you about our lives.  Spying on us for you since you’re so incapable of talking to us yourselves.”_

 _“Getting information out of you is like waiting for the sun to rise in the west, Gilbert.”_ Père, as always, has metaphors at the ready.   _“Pierre is not our spy he is your_ godfather, _and—”_

_“—And neither of you saw fit to tell me he had AIDs?”_

Silence.

The servants in the room disappear like they were never there.  Maman sags into her chair.  Père looks like he’s sucking on a lemon.  His face has gone pale, however.  His mouth opening and closing like he’s not quite sure what to say.  Finally settling on _“He doesn’t have AIDs.”_

Lafayette grits his teeth.   _“I don’t_ care.   _He has HIV.  Was that not important for me to know?”_ he presses.   _“When, exactly, were you going to tell me?  Were you_ ever _going to tell me?  Or were you going to let me keep thinking he was fine, until the day he died?”_

 _“Pierre’s not going to die, sweetheart,”_ Maman immediately replies.   _“Sit down, yes?  Please?”_

Lafayette sits.  He’s shaking though.  Shaking hard enough that he can feel how the wood of the table digs into his skin.  Leaning against him as he shivers violently.  He’s trying to control it.  Trying to hold it back.  But he can’t quite manage it.  Instead, the shaking gets worse.  He sees images in his head.

Sees how many things could have gone completely wrong over the years.  Over time.  And maybe it’s because Pierre has already made the connection more than once, but he finds it so very easy to slide John into place.  To put John where Pierre was.  A teenager with barely a place to call home, hooked on drugs and getting desperate.  Trading away things that he didn’t want to give up, because they were the only things he had.

Jefferson sent someone to _stab_ him.  Try as he might, Lafayette cannot let that thought go.  Cannot ignore that John and Madison, and even Alex, could very well have been murdered that night.  Left alone in a parking lot.  Three teenagers of color sprawled out in the wrong place and wrong time.  No need to look any further into it.  No one would ever need to know.

How many witnesses could have been gathered to state that John was a known user?  Madison?  A known dealer.  Alex was never proven to be on anything, but maybe this was his first shot?  Drug deal gone wrong?  He loved draping himself around John and had been spending more time with Madison lately.

The whole thing would have been swept away.   Ignored and never followed up on.  And Lafayette can’t shake the image.  Can’t shake it from reality.  Can’t hide from all the different ways _it can be worse.  It can be worse._

John’s test results could have come back positive.

Their unprotected sex could have led to Lafayette coming back positive.

He could have had HIV and John could have had HIV and Pierre _did_ have HIV and none of it was related, but it all became a jumbled mess in Lafayette’s mind of _too much._  Hercules was right.  He didn’t like coming home.  Didn’t like dealing with everything.  Because it was outside of his ability to manage.  Outside of his range of understanding.  He couldn’t deal with John injury when he first got hurt, and now Pierre _is_ hurt — sort of — and he just—

Tears press against Lafayette's eyes.  Welling up and desperate to fall. _“Would you have spoken to me then?”_ Lafayette asks.  Hurting them just because he wanted to now.  There was no reason to ask this question, no need to push the issue, but he needed to do it anyway.  Needed to get it out in the air.  The intrusive thought wouldn’t leave him alone until he uttered it into existence.  So he uttered it into existence.  Brought it to life.  Spat it into the world.   _“Would you have wanted to be in my life if you knew I was dying?”_

Maman nearly shrieks her reply, _“Pierre is not dying!”_ She pushes from the table.  Unlike John, though, she doesn’t flee.  She paces.  Back and forth back and forth.  Bringing one hand to her lips as she walks.  

 _“He has HIV!”_ Lafayette snaps back.

She turns on her heel.  Waves her finger in the air.  Almost shoves it in his face.  Leaning across the table toward him.  Hovering over Père who slides his chair back to give her room.   _“His viral load has been as low as 75 for the past three years, he’s not dying!  Stop saying that!”_  

_“When were you going to tell me?”_

_“It wasn’t relevant to tell you—”_

_“—You just got done saying he was my godfather, how is it not relevant for me to know—”_

Père stands up now.  Lafayette matching him so they’re all on the same level as each other.  It’s like a dance.  One up, one down, one pacing all around.  They’re incapable of having this discussion civilly, and Lafayette doesn’t know why he imagined anything different.  Doesn’t know why everything makes his chest hurt or his head ache.

Everyone else always talked about having the best family ever.  Talked about how they could go home for holidays and enjoy themselves.  Holidays were the only times his parents ever cared, and then they never showed up.  They should have been caring the whole year round.  They should have been there the whole year round.  They shouldn’t have hid something like this from him.

It wouldn’t have changed much.  Lafayette knows that.  He knows it wouldn’t have changed much.  But...it would have kept him from thinking about it _now._ When John’s still recovering from the hospital.  When everything else is already falling apart.  Because no matter how many times they insisted that Pierre wasn’t dying, the mere thought of the acronym sends Lafayette back to health class.

2001\. Watching videos of people dying of HIV.  Being told over and over again that the diagnosis was a death sentence.  HIV.  AIDS. It was all the same thing in the end.  It meant death.  And not only did his parents not tell him about Pierre, they kept the fact they were _sleeping_ with Pierre a secret too.

 _“I always thought you were coming back for me,”_ Lafayette laughs.   _“But it was him wasn’t it?  It was always him?  You always came back because he refused to leave and it was the only way you could see him.”_

 _“That’s not true.”_ Père holds his hands up.  A call for peace.  Quiet.  Rational discussion.  They are well past that by now.  

Pierre had said they left him in charge of Lafayette as a baby.  They couldn’t even be bothered to be there when he was a _baby._ “I hate you,” he tells them in English.  They both flinch.  Both share a look like they’d expected this day to come but had no plan or methodology in getting around it.  Awkward and fumbling.  Plans to make everything perfect disappearing by the wayside.

 _“That’s not true either,”_ Père tells him firmly.   _“You’re upset.  You have...a right to be upset.  But saying things like that—”_

Lafayette shakes his head.  Interrupts.   _“—I called.  I called months ago when I learned Pierre used to be on drugs, you didn’t tell me then.  Why?”_

 _“It_ wasn’t _relevant,”_ Maman repeats.  As if saying it enough times will make it right.  As if it’ll be better now that she’s said it a few more times once more.  Lafayette snatches John’s water glass from the table.  Drinks it down.  Needing something to do with his hands as he struggled to keep his attention steady.  Keep from doing more that he’s certain he’ll regret.

Damn them all to hell.

 _“When you were a child we did not believe you could keep it a secret,”_ Maman continues, though.  She smooths her hands over her designer dress.  She wrings her hands together so her jewelry twists around her fingers. _“An immigrant?”_ She scoffs loudly.  Tucks her hair behind her ears.  Can’t sit still.  Seems to always be in motion.   _“An immigrant with...with_ bad _blood in his body?  As well connected as he is now, it posed a risk to him we weren’t willing to take.”_

 _“Don’t_ lie _to me!”_ Lafayette snaps.

His parents don’t often speak in unison.  But when they do it’s terrifying.  They turn to Lafayette.  Hissing and shouting as one.   _“We’re not!”_ spitting out through the air.  Much like before, silence crashes in around them.  Cutting through the air and tearing a hole in their lines.  Lafayette squeezes the stem of John’s water glass.

His mouth has gone dry.  Père’s voice is tight.  Gritting out, _“You do not understand how many immigrant boys and girls were rounded up and sold into prostitution—are still, to this day, subjected to such treatment.”_ His father’s fingers tighten.  Voice choking.   _“How many legal immigrants may not been carrying the correct identification that day and then quietly_ disappeared _in the night.  Carted off to prisons for sentences they can’t hope to argue against.  Exiled or removed from the country before they could argue their case.  No civil servant.  No phone call.  You’ve seen them check for identification.  I_ know _you have.  And yet you never once thought about what that would have been like for him?”_

_“I wouldn’t have just told a police officer—”_

_“—You were a_ child, _it hardly mattered who you told.  So long as someone else outside of the family knew.  He was frightened,_ we _were frightened.  Had an officer known him, known that about him, had they felt compelled to quietly remove him from society—do you truly believe he could have been safe?  And even if he was.  Even if he_ was _safe.  He was ashamed!  Ashamed and upset.  He didn’t want to speak about it to us!  Let alone a child!  We respected his wishes.  And we will continue to do so.”_

 _“Sometimes,”_ Maman continues softly.   _“Even if you don’t agree with it...even if it breaks your heart.  Even if it hurts.  If someone says ‘no,’ there is nothing else you can do.  The answer is ‘no.’”_ Lafayette freezes.  His mouth goes dry.  His eyes widen and his heart feels like it skips a beat.   _“He said ‘no,’ Gil...and so we never told you he was sick.”_

Stumbling backwards, Lafayette falls into his chair.  He drops his head into his hands, and lets the tears fall.  No one says another word.  There is nothing left to say.

***

John was waiting for him when Lafayette finally managed to drag himself up to his bedroom.  It took a long time.  Long enough that Lafayette wasn’t sure if John would even still be awake.  He was though.  Sitting up and talking at his computer screen.   _Oh.  Oh!_

Lafayette sags against the doorframe.  Watches John smile at his laptop.  Nod his head an ask Alex a question.  John’s wearing his cuff.  Wearing a sleep shirt.  The neckline plunges a little.  Revealing his collarbones.  His hair’s pulled back in a messy ponytail, and Lafayette wants to sing his fingers into it.  Wants to bury his face into it and just breathe.

Taking a deep breath, Lafayette presses his fingers to his eyes.  Tries to make sure that all evidence of tears are gone from his face.  That he looks presentable enough to sit next to John and talk to their friends.

When he finally is able to drag himself forward, John makes room for him on the bed.  Lets him curl up behind him. Lean over to look at the screen.  Relish in John’s warmth as he leaned against his body.  Perfect and loving.  Caring.  There’s not a hint of animosity on his features.  If anything, he seems almost calm.

“You look exhausted,” Alex tells him from six thousand miles away.  Lafayette checks the time.  They’re six hours ahead, which means it's late afternoon there. 

“Yeah,” he replies.  “I am.  How are things in America?”

“Well in the past twenty-four hours nothing really bad has happened,” Alex informs them dutifully.  He goes on.  It seems whatever lingering doubts or frustration he had about John’s choice to leave have left.  And isn’t that something else that Lafayette hadn’t been paying attention to?

Alex decision to stop fighting them.  To let them go.  Once he’d laid out his case for John to stay...he’d backed off and let John leave.  It was John’s decision.  And Alex had respected it.  Despite not wanting to.  Despite feeling as though he was losing his best friend when _he_ wanted John to stay.

God.  

Lafayette closes his eyes and listens.  Madison and Aaron are there and they take turns talking about what they’ve been up to.  Alex went to talk to Eliza today and she introduced him to Maria.  There’s a job maybe that Alex could get over the summer if he was interested.  He’s thinking about it.  They argue a little about going apartment hunting.  

All of them have been crashing at various houses as they figure out what to do.  Madison hadn’t wanted to go home until his bruises had healed.  Didn’t want to scare his family.  But now he’s getting ready to move on south which leaves Aaron and Alex.  Neither wanting to go back to their permanent residences and debating whether to get an apartment of their own.

“Stay at our place while we’re out?” John offers without even asking Lafayette his permission.  He doesn’t mind.  They’re not there as it is.  “You could figure out how to break in.”

Alex doesn’t think he’ll have any problem with that, and Lafayette’s interested in learning more about _that_ particular talent, but sleep beckons.  He dozes through most of the conversation until eventually John signs out.  Says goodbye to them so he can set his laptop to the side and shimmy so that he’s lying on Lafayette’s chest.  Holding and being held in return.

“I frightened you,” Lafayette whispers.  He’s a glutton for punishment tonight it seems.

John doesn’t respond immediately.  Choosing instead to just press his nose against Lafayette’s pit.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  “I got overwhelmed,” he admits softly.  

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad at you.”  Maybe he should be.  Considering how the crux of his arguments thus far have been people not doing what he wants them to do and how unfair it all is.  He’s been whining for days, weeks even, and for what: for Pierre to be upset?  To blame his parents for a decision they respected that Pierre even _told_ him was his choice?  

“What are we doing here?”  Lafayette asks quietly.  

“You wanted to talk to your parents.”

“I talked to them.”

“Are you done?”   John sits up.  Stares at him.  “Did you get everything you wanted?”  Not even close.  But there’s a difference between expecting that something more will happen, and understanding that it never will.  Lafayette can hope for things to make sense, but he doubts that life will give him the resolution he seeks.

The world changes.  Constantly.  Endlessly.  It moves in ways that Lafayette cannot seem to control.  And he’s struck at the worst times with the realization that he _can’t_ control everything.  Everything, instead, falls for him to either ignore or press on with.  There is no middle ground.

He cannot change the past.  Cannot right the wrongs that happened.  “I’m frightened,” he admits.  It takes much for him to say it too.  The words are half whispered.  Uncomfortable on his tongue.  He hates admitting weakness.  Has long thought that the path to success would be defined by a  lack of weakness and attachments.

He’s made the worst attachment of them all when he decided to save John’s life.  He fell in love.   _Love is a many splendored thing..._ “I think about it,” John tells Lafayette suddenly.  Changing the topic as he runs his fingers up and down Lafayette’s chest.  He nudges the shirt away so he can trail along the skin.  It feels interesting.  Soothing, almost.  Like it’s always meant to be.  

“Think about what?” Lafayette presses.

John’s fingertips caress his nipples.  His sternum.  “I think about what would have happened if I had been in Pierre’s shoes.  A drug addict immigrant—”

“—You’re not an immigrant—”

“—A drug addict _son_ of an immigrant who had HIV.”

“And?”

“I think I’m lucky I made out better than a lot of other people.”  He’d been lying in a hospital barely able to breathe he was in so much pain.  They sedated him deep enough that he slept for days so that he could get over the fact his bones were broken and he was risking nerve damage.  He still didn’t take any painkillers more powerful than advil on the off chance that he could somehow be addicted to those too.  He’d been willing to trade his body at one point, and may have _actually_ done so in the past.  

And yet.  Lafayette cannot take it from him.  He’s right.  Some people made it out worse.  Some people made it out worse than Pierre too.  For all the pain they went through, they had a support system denied to them from so many others.  “What are you thinking about?”  Lafayette asks John softly.

“I don’t know,” John admits.  “I’ll...I’ll let you know.”

Lafayette should probably follow that line of thought.  Ask John questions.  Pester him for details.  But he doesn’t.  He can’t.  His head is too full and his heart is too sick and the most he can manage is a half hearted kiss to the side of John’s head as he closes his eyes and wishes the world would just slow down.

Stop.

And give him a chance to breathe.

 ***

The next day, Lafayette is determined to spend no time at all with his parents.  He needs time off.  Time to rest and relax and enjoy his life in any way he can.  He needs to decompress, and since he hasn’t been back to France in years, the best way he can think of doing so is to explore.  

Taking John in hand, he takes one of the cars from the garage and heads into town.  They drive through the countryside.  They look at the views and take pictures on his cellphone.  John makes him send them Alex immediately, and Alex usually responds within a few minutes.  Big crying faces asking if he can come next time.  

Truly, Lafayette’s tempted to send him a ticket as well.  If only so they have more reason to avoid the house.  Hercules would argue against it, however.  Telling him he needed to manage his own house and family before he started getting more distractions in his life.  

There’s a restaurant Lafayette liked to frequent from time to time, however, as a child, and he pulls in now.  Checking in that John’s doing all right.  He’s had lingering pain from the flight, arm tingling randomly and remaining tight.  However he seems determined to move it.  To keep it constantly in motion and not letting it stiffen.  Lafayette’s not sure if that’s the _best_ practice, but John seems convinced that it’s better than letting it sit still and seize up.

They slide into their seats at the restaurant and Lafayette quizzes John on his French.  Pleased when John’s able to identify his food preferences and order politely from their waitress.  “Where did you and Pierre go last night?” Lafayette asks quietly.  If John would prefer not to talk about it, he won’t press, but he’s curious how the man helped calm John down.  If only to see how the method could be replicated.

“There’s a crick out back? With some seats?”  Lafayette remembers it.  “We just talked.   _He_ just talked.  I don’t know.” He ducks his head.  Flushing.  Embarrassed?   _Why?_ “I wish...I wish I had him in my life when I was a kid.”

Lafayette tries to imagine what that would be like.  Tries to piece together the image it’d make.  He’s seen a picture of John as a child, and it’s not hard to take that smiling boy who’s so full of hope and happiness and plant him somewhere on Lafayette’s family’s grounds.  

He thinks, suddenly, of everything they’d have done together.  Running around and causing trouble.  Unlike Hercules, Lafayette has little trouble imagining John standing at his side through everything.  Starting fights and finishing them more often than not.  Getting equally upset about his parents.  Staging rebellions together.

He’d have been a true co-conspirator, and by the time Hercules did come and join their group, he’d be tasked with managing both their inimitable forces of nature.  God, Hercules would have either hated them or become even more of a _mom friend._ Lafayette can’t help but choke out a laugh as he pictures it.

Shares the image with John as their food arrives.  It’s good to see John smile.  Good to see his eyes twinkle and his lips spread.  He wants to give John that.  If there’s something he wants to give John more than anything else, it’s the knowledge that he has a family.  That he has people who love and care about him.

Alex, who would do anything for John.  Even Madison and Burr had started to get close to John.  Caring about him.  Wanting to be there for him.  John’s getting there.  But it isn’t the same.  Lafayette knows it’s not the same.  

He wants his parents in his life.  As much as he tried pretending that it didn’t matter, he _wants_ that.  And John?  Lafayette _knows_ that John wants it too.  Wanted his father to care for him.  Had hoped that when his father had come, opened that door and asked to drive him home, he’d done it for _John._ Because he wanted to make things right.

They don’t always get what they want.  But Lafayette would have to be blind to not see how much Pierre cared for John.  “He won’t allow your father to take advantage of you,” Lafayette promises.  

“I know.”  He doesn’t hesitate.  Confident in that at the very least.  

 _God, if I could give him this too—_ “He loves you,” Lafayette tells him firmly.  

John’s cheeks flush dark.  He smiles almost shyly.  Nods faintly and pokes at the cuff on his wrist.  “I...him...um...I don’t...know...I…” Very intelligible.  

“You should tell him,” Lafayette advises.  It earns him an annoyed look, but he’ll take it.  “He’d like it.”

Lafayette doesn’t know if it’s because Pierre can see himself so clearly in John, or if it’s truly John as a person Pierre’s latched onto, but whatever it is: the affection is obvious.  It’s a two way street.  And if John wants a relationship with the man, in _any_ capacity, he should tell him.

“You should tell them too,” his boyfriend counters.  It doesn’t make sense.

“What?”  

Clearing his throat, John takes a deep breath of air.  Knowing what he’s going to say next will not be pleasant, “As much fun as this is...you should tell your parents...talk to _them_ about...things.  Not me.”

The comment wrankles.  Makes Lafayette’s nose twitch and his skin feel hot and scratchy.  He directs his attention to his food and eats it.  Gleeful at the taste on his tongue, even if he’s dissatisfied with his current conversation.  “I don’t have a relationship with my father,” John murmurs.  “Sometimes...when I talk to Pierre I can almost think that that’s what a dad’s supposed to be like?  And I want that.  More than anything.  But.  I won’t ever have that.”

“My parents are not Pierre,” Lafayette snaps.  

John is undaunted.  Surprisingly frisky.  It’s been awhile since Lafayette’s seen his temper flare or his energy rally for an argument.  Not since before the hospital.  Seeing it now is bittersweet.  “But they’re not _my_ father either.”  John shifts in his seat.  Adjusts his sling so that it’s more firmly settled.  Cleaning the lines of his body so he looks slick and proper.  More like an adult and less like a child.  “Your parents love you,” John tells him firmly.  “They’re shit at showing it, but they do love you.  And you came all this way for a reason.  You didn’t do it because you gave up on them and want them out of your life, and you didn’t do it just to yell at them.  

“You could have done that on the phone.”  John has an annoying habit of speaking the truth when it’s inconvenient to listen.  “You want this with them.  And you think the reason you don’t have it now is ‘cause of all these lies and sneaking around.  No more lies.  No more sneaking around.  Just do it.”

Lafayette cannot imagine how that conversation would go.  If he’d be able to hold onto his temper.  To keep himself from saying something he’d regret.  “I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

“Just…” John shrugs.  “Introduce yourself?  Get...to know them?  Pretend? I don’t know.  Pretend they’re not your parents and you’re meeting them for the first time.  Just don’t fuck ‘em against a dumpster that’d be weird.”  Lafayette laughs loudly.  Particularly when the waitress so obviously hears John’s comment and stares at him scandalously.

John flushes darkly and mutters under his breath.  “That’s your advice?”  Lafayette asks.

“Mine and Pierre, Alex, Aaron’s, and James’.  We talked last night.”  Sounds like they got a lot out in the open.  “Just...try?” John whispers.

“How should I start?”  Lafayette asks.

And John shrugs.  Bites his lip.  “I don’t know.  With hello?”

It is, Lafayette supposes, as good a place as any.

_Cur non?_


	13. Chapter 13

Despite his advice, Lafayette takes John around town for the rest of the day.  Dutifully ignoring the house and everything in it.  It’s fine, and they’ve got time.  Walking doesn’t hurt as much as it could anymore, and John’s half certain that Lafayette’s planning on sulking through most of this anyway. 

They pass by Lafayette’s old school and John listens as his boyfriend tells stories.  Gives him a play by play and names names.  Some are funny, some are sad, but John likes listening to all of them.  Lafayette’s enthusiasm cannot be ignored.  He’s trying here.  And it’s a good kind of distracting.  A better kind of distracting. 

By the time they make it back to the house, some of the tension had faded from Lafayette’s shoulders and he’s starting to seem more calm. “Gilbert?” Marie.  She stands awkwardly in the foyer.  John glances at his boyfriend; squeezes his hand. 

“I’m gonna go upstairs,” he murmurs.  He smiles faintly toward Marie, then hurries to their bedroom.  Tracing back his steps until he knew exactly which door to open.  He almost reached it when he saw Pierre rounding the bend.  

He’s dressed down.  Jeans and a comfortable looking sweater on.  It looks unreasonably soft and cozy.  “Hey,” John greets awkwardly.  

“Hey,” Pierre replies.  “Did you have a good drive?” 

“Yeah, good enough.  Um.  How’re you doing?” 

“Fine...it’s nice to be back.” He says it with a smile.  Lips twitching upward as he finishes his approach.  “How’s your arm?”  It hurts.  John says as much too, rubbing at it awkwardly as Pierre nods.  “Michel could look at it, if you’d like?  He has training and an office downstairs.” 

“I uh, I told Laf—Gil? Laf? I told him I’d meet him upstairs.”

The older man’s face pinches.  Unhappy about something.  “Marie cut you off?” At John’s nod, Pierre sighs.  “I told her not to.”

“She’s trying?” At least that’s what John gathered from the exchange.  

“She is.”  He doesn’t say more on the topic.  “Unless you are planning on staying here for hours alone, Gil won’t be back up for a while.  You’ll have time.”  Without seeing much of a reason to argue, John nods.  Lets Pierre lead him back down the stairs and around a bend.  

The mansion (chateau?) is far larger than John had any hope of trying to figure out.  He attempts to keep track of the halls and doors they traverse through, but each one ends up falling by the wayside.  He’s not sure where he’s going, nor how Pierre has managed to keep such a good mental map.  Though he supposes practice makes perfect. 

He’s had twenty five years to get used to this, give or take. 

Despite the overwhelmingly dated quality to the home’s decor, leaning toward eighteenth century delights, Michel’s office is not nearly as lavishly set.  In fact, it’s downright modest.  He has a desk and several fine looking filing cabinets, but the majority of the office is settled into neat stacks of paperwork and comfortable looking chairs. 

Pierre lets himself in with a brief knock and introduction in French.  Drawing Michel’s gaze up from his paperwork to look at them.  He looks tired.  More tired than he had the day before, and John half wonders if he slept last night.  Pierre’s hand cups the back of John’s head for a brief moment.  “Michel, John’s arm is hurt, can you look at it?”  Usually far more eloquent in English, John can’t help but blink up at Pierre.  

“Ah...yes. I think.”  Michel motions them forward and Pierre guides John so he’s sitting in the closest chair to Michel’s desk.  Letting his hand fall from John’s head so he could sit beside him.  He asks Michel something in French, and the man responds quickly in kind.  But as Lafayette’s father comes to stand before him, the man tries again.  “I am sorry, English is not...as good as other languages.” 

“I uh, I speak Spanish? And. Um—”

Honest relief slides over the man’s face and he all but sags against the desk.   _ “I speak Spanish as well.”  _ Smile growing as he gains in sudden confidence.  John suspects Michel is not used to being caught flat footed.  His posture was straightening and his expression became far more steely eyed and focused.  

_ “I don’t speak it that often,”  _ John admits.   _ “My friend Alex does, though.  Sometimes I’ll talk to him in it.”  _

_ “Gilbert doesn’t know it,”  _ Michel adds on, somewhat tangentially.  John’s not sure how he’s meant to respond to that.  Pierre doesn’t seem to know either.  Just presses his lips together like he’s trying to hold something back, though neither knows what.   _ “May I see?”  _ Michel’s fingers wiggle toward John’s arm, and John hates this part of the process. 

He’s gotten better at unbuttoning his shirt one handed.  In sliding it off one arm at a time.  Sling flopped over his head somewhere early on in the process.  At one point, his left elbow gets stuck in the sleeve, and Pierre gently assists him in pulling it off.  It slides out far more casually, and gives John the range of motion he needs to free himself from it’s confines. 

Michel squints at the scar on John’s arm first.  Slowly bringing his hands up to cup the limb.  Thumbs gentle on either sides of the stitching lines.   _ “It seems as if the skin is healing well.”  _ The scar still looks vivid and vaguely purple to John.  Much better than the blood red gash it used to be, sure, but it stands out on his skin as something he’s not used to having.  Something he doesn’t really want to have there.  

Even so,  _ “I’m not as worried about the  _ skin _.”  _ It’s everything else that goes with it. 

Cool fingers release his bicep.   _ “Can you hold your arm out?”  _ He tries his best.  Has it hovering in the air for a few seconds, even, before the strain starts to pull at his back.  Fingers shaking, John struggles to keep it up.  Internally grateful with Michel resumes his hold.  Bracing it and easing up on the pressure.   _ “Can you flex your fingers?”  _

This is harder.  It takes time.  Sparks fly up John’s hand and he bites his lip as he squeezes them down into a vague approximation of a closed fist.  He squeezes Michel’s fingers when prompted, even knowing his grip is weak and all but useless.  He can’t pick up a glass anymore, let alone try to hold onto Michel. 

More than once, John’s grip fails.  His fingers fall slack and limp.  His arm screams at him angrily, and he can hear the complaints almost as if they were spoken words.   _ Useless.  Broken.  Stupid.  _

Humming thoughtfully, Michel inspects John’s back.  He pads his fingers around the muscles, patting John’s side apologetically when one touch sends a spasm up John’s spine.   _ “What did your doctors say about it?”  _ Michel asks once he’s finished his inspection. 

_ “Wait and see,”  _ John mumbles awkwardly. 

_ “It is good advice.  I would need to look at your records to say for certain, but judging on the wound itself — you seem to be healing well.  You had nerve damage, yes?”  _ Yes.  _ “It is tricky, as the nerve will need to remake connections.  Sometimes this is possible, and sometimes it isn’t.  As you have motion in your hand and arm still, I believe that you are on the right track to recovering your range of motion.  Muscles will take time to heal, and you may still feel pain from time to time, but I do not see anything at this time that is indicative of anything  _ bad. _ ” _

_ “Will I be able to hold things again?”  _ Because at the end of the day that’s what he’s concerned about.  He wants to go back to how he was before.  And sometimes he thinks he sees it getting better.  But then he’s reminded brutally of the fact that he can’t get his arm to pull up.  He can’t grip what he used to.  He can’t even stroke Lafayette off let alone himself.  

_ Cut it off, cut it off, cut it off _ had been a mantra running through his head at the hospital, and frankly he’s not sure if this is much better.  A somewhat useless limb that’s incapable of doing it’s job properly.  

_ “As I said, nerve damage makes things difficult.  But you seem to have some strength returning naturally.  I know it is difficult advice to hear...but waiting may be your best option at the moment.”  _

John’s tired of waiting.  Tired of standing still and doing nothing at all.  Tired of facing an endless uphill climb that’s going to lead him nowhere.  He wants to reach the end.  Wants to get there before everyone else.  Wants to—  _ “You are left handed?”  _ John nods.   _ “That’s better than it could be, hm?”  _

_ “I guess.”  _ He shifts.  Tries to move his arm back.  If only to see his range of motion.  Pain flairs violently and he hisses through clenched teeth.  

Shoulder flaring, and bicep complaining, John hugs the limb closer.  Michel doesn’t seem to know what to say about that.  Just,  _ “You’ll want to work up to putting your arm in that position.”  _

Position. 

Working up. 

Twisting in his chair, John feels his eyes starting to prickle.  He meets Pierre’s gaze and from the defeat he sees there, he knows it’s something everyone’s been dancing around.  “Am I going to be able to fence again?” he asks desperately.  

It’s not fair.  It’s not fair.  It’s not fair if after everything that’s happened that got taken away.  He’s been starting to enjoy himself.  Starting to really find peace in it.  It’s not fair.  “Please I—” he needs to hear that it’s not true.  He hasn’t lost it.  

“You can fence, now,” Pierre tells him.  

Michel clears his throat “Pierre—” John stops listening.  He doesn’t want to try to translate whatever Michel’s saying.  Doesn’t want to listen to him.  He can’t do that right now.   Can’t pretend that everything’s going to be fine if he just waits for it.  He can’t. 

He needs something to look forward to, something he can hold onto with both hands even if it takes him years to get there.  He needs to know he can do this.  That he can still have this.  He  _ needs  _ this.  

Pierre slides from his chair.  Kneels before John.  Takes his face between his hands.  “You can fence now.  I can show you.  You said you were hurting, do you want to wait?”

“No.”  The pain doesn’t matter.  It won’t matter.  

Lafayette’s father isn’t pleased.  Shakes his head.  “You do not want to…” he fumbles for the euphemisms.  “ _ Push yourself,”  _ he finishes in Spanish. 

They aren’t listening.  Pierre leans forward and kisses John’s brow.  Pulls him up to his feet.  Ordering him to follow with a brisk, “Come with me.”  He leads John out of the room.  Hardly stopping for John to get his sling and shirt back.  Just marching forward, one hand tight around Lafayette’s cuff. 

Michel trails after them.  He doesn’t argue.  He doesn’t put up more of a fight.  John half wonders if he’s used to this.  If he’s decided that this is how it needs to happen.  If he’s been here before or worked on it in reverse.  John’s not certain he  _ wants  _ to know what the man is thinking right now.  If he even cares. 

Pierre’s fingers are a light tan band around his wrist and they’re a tether leading him on.  Down hallways that seem to have no end.  Down stairs that John never noticed before.  Into a workout area that is so different from the basement at Lafayette’s house.  Great glass windows open out onto a slate patio.  Green grassy fields stretch out indefinitely.  

There are pads set up and lines on the floor, and it is in turns more modern and more sophisticated than anything that they have back home.  Even so, it feels natural.  Natural as Pierre snatches John’s shirt from Michel’s hands and redresses him.  Natural as he talks to John in soothing tones.  “You’re all right...you’re all right.  It’s okay.  Breathe for me, yeah?” 

The words don’t make sense.  Nor does the thumb swiping across his face with tender care.  Smearing tears John hadn’t realized were falling.  But once it became clear that John was crying, he couldn’t seem to stop.  Each shake sent his muscles burning and John bent his head forward.  Burying it in Pierre’s chest. 

He hears more French.  Lafayette’s given name.  Michel leaves the room.  Leaves them to stand there in silence.  John sobbing against Pierre like he’s a child.  “Please, please—”

“—you’ll be able to fence.  You’ll be able to.” 

“Not right, my arm not—”

“—You  _ will be able to.”  _

The older man pulls back.  Cups his face once more.  “Listen to me, son—” John’s world stops.  Tunnels down.  Pierre’s still talking to him.  Still reaching out to place a hand on John’s side.  Words filter in and out.  They surround John’s consciousness with a blank wave of understanding that leaves him feeling no more informed than the moment before.   _ Son.  _

Pierre meets his eyes and doesn’t pull away.  He holds onto John’s face and shakes it occasionally.  Trying to keep his focus, but John’s focus is already lost. 

_ Son.  _ The word reverberates through his body.  It is a siren call and a demand and a plea.  It is a desperate request that was tossed out meaninglessly, but it’s  _ not  _ meaningless.   _ Son.  _ “I’m not going to let you down,” Pierre swears to him. 

“Please—” John cuts himself off.  His voice chokes in his throat.  He tries to get the words to rise up, but he can’t.  He can’t just yet.  There’s phlegm in the back of his throat and he sniffles.  Tears still fall from his eyes. 

Pierre does up his buttons.  Gets each one properly in place and guides the sling back around John’s arm.  He goes to the wall where there are sabres and epees and foils all lined up side by side.  He pulls a sabre down and returns.  Places it in John’s hand. 

“You don’t need to pull your arm back.  Okay?”  There’s a touch of desperation in Pierre’s voice.  “You can hit the same without it there.  You can bind your arm to your chest.  You don’t need it.  You don’t need to be in the proper posture to do this. Use your left hand with the sabre, the rest of your body can follow through.  Worry about your right arm later.” 

It’s not proper position.  It’s not how it was meant to be.  Fencing was supposed to have strict rules and regulations.  It was supposed to be consistent.  Easy to follow.  There were no compromises.  You stand a certain way, you strike a certain way, you move a certain way.  Bim. Bam. Bim. Boom. 

“Son?” Pierre presses.  Guides his body into position.  The tears keep falling, but Pierre pushes throught.  Doesn’t tell him to stop.  Doesn’t tell him to change.  Just assists with his stance.  His feet.  His body sinks naturally into the position. 

His arm yearns to move behind him, but he knows he can’t.  The sling is forcing him immobile.   

“It’s okay to choose to have a different posture,” Pierre tells him.  “To modify things to make it work for you.  It’s okay to be different, and still love what you love.  Son, it’s okay.” 

“Dad—” It’s not the right time to have this conversation.  Too much too fast.  But Pierre keeps using that word and it’s distracting at best and damning at worst and John can’t manage everything at once.  One or the other, something needs to give.  John’s knees tremble.  His heart pounds louder and louder in his ears.

He can’t remember anyone ever trying to make something work for him.  Can’t remember his father ever being there when he needed him to be there.  When he needed support or assistance or.  God, John doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. 

But Pierre’s looking at him.  Concern on his features.  Eyes wide and lips frozen in place.   “Can I—” John’s voice breaks off again.  Useless.  Stupid.  Bad.  

“Can you?” Pierre presses.  Trembling.  His face seems to have lost all color.  He’s holding onto John’s face so tight.  Fingers digging into the mess that is John’s hair.  

“You said—you called me— son?  Can—dad? Can I call you...that?” His heart thunders.  His vision blurs.  Tears keep pressing against his eyes.  Terror is rising up.  Paranoia is cresting in his chest.  He’s screwed this up.  He’s lost everything.  Lost fencing.  Lost Pierre.  He’ll lose Lafayette too because Lafayette won’t stay if he’s hurt Pierre.  It’s one more thing he’s screwed up and he’ll keep screwing up. 

He’s such a failure.  He’s such a—

Pierre jerks him forward.  Crushes John to his chest.  John’s arm trapped between them, but he can’t think of that.  Can’t think of the sudden pain that’s starting to pull up and down his arm.   _ That doesn’t matter.  _

Something wet slides into John’s hair and Pierre’s body is shaking.  Shaking and crying harder and harder.  Oh God, John thinks he might have broken him.  Somehow.  They slowly crumple to the floor.  Johns still resting against Pierre’s chest.  Crying.  Sobbing.

He can hear footsteps.  Pounding louder and louder.  Sliding across the tile ground, “Lapin?” Lafayette.

 Lafayette’s crouching at his back, and placing a hand on his hip and whispering to him. “Lapin, mon amour?”  He doesn’t want to go.  Lafayette keeps nudging at his hip, but he doesn’t want to go.  “You’ll fence again okay?  Okay?”  There’s desperation in his voice.  Fear.  Panic.  “I’ll fence with you.  I’ll work with you every day.  We’ll do it, we will—I’ll—”

_ “Mijo?”  _ Pierre whispers against his hair.  Kissing his head.  Nudging John’s head with his nose.  And oh God his  _ mother  _ called him that.  His mother called him that and Lafayette keeps trying to get his attention, and he’s really confused and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say or do.   _ “Is that okay?”  _ Spanish sounds nice on Pierre’s tongue.  

Mijo.  Mijo—my son.  __ She used to take his hand and they’d play in the beach.  She’d encourage him and promise him that everything was going to be all right.  She told him she’d be there for him.  She told him he’d be okay.  They’d be okay. 

John’s nodding.  Nodding and nodding.  His cheek burns from rubbing so hard against Pierre’s shoulder.  “Mijo?”  Lafayette whispers quietly.  “John are you okay?”  The tone’s different.  Like he doesn’t quite know if he should be pulling John back or letting this continue.  

“Pierre?” That’s Michel.  And from the click of her heels, Marie’s here too.  Everyone nervous and unsettled and John feels like he’s just made everything so much worse.  He didn’t mean to.  He didn’t. 

He just.  “We’re fine,” Pierre says in English.  Then French.  Then Spanish.  Kisses John’s brow again.  John pulls back.  Finally lets Lafayette pull him back so he’s resting against Lafayette’s chest.  He stares up at Pierre’s face.   _ Papi. _

“We’re good,  _ si mijo?”  _

“Si,” the word sounds garbled on his tongue, but he manages to wipe his tears.  Get them off his face.  Take a deep breath in.  Let it out.  

Pierre presses his hands to his face.  Rubs it a few times before straightening his hair.  Tears stopping as he clears his throat.  He holds out his hand to help Lafayette and John back to their feet.  “Lapin?” Lafayette presses. 

“I’m good.  I’m good.  Sorry. I—I’m sorry.”  

“You don’t have to apologize,” Lafayette tells him.  He sounds nervous.  Uncertain.  John has done nothing but keep him on edge for months now, and at some point the bough has to break.  “I just...don’t understand?” 

Frankly.

John didn’t have any idea how to explain it either. 

***

They go out to eat.  All five of them.  John doesn’t get to practice his fencing.  With everything that happened in the practice room, there simply hadn’t been a chance.  Michel and Marie keep fretting over Pierre, trying to see what’s going on and if he’s all right.  Lafayette’s acting much the same way to him.  It’s almost comical seeing them all tripping over themselves.  But at the end of it: John’s exhausted.  Dinner sounds nice. 

They sit in a circle.  The table large enough to accommodate all of them.   John rests his head on Lafayette’s shoulder, too exhausted to think about how fancy the restaurant is.  How expensive the food is.  How  _ much  _ the whole experience is costing.  He’s drained entirely, and only really cares in so far as knowing there’s food in front of him.  And knowing he has to eat it.

The conversation flows steadily around the table.  Somehow everyone manages to stay civil.  Apparently fits of mass hysteria leaves everyone far too drained to think or do anything else.  Pierre likely would always have remained steady and calm, but now his temperance is matched by everyone at the table. 

There’s a settling.  A...strange acceptance that is traded from person to person.  Stop fighting.  Stop making things worse.  Just.  Sit still and eat dinner.  Lafayette strokes the back of John’s hand.  He tells his parents about school. 

About their house. 

It’s two floors and a basement.  Two bedrooms one master bath and one en-suite.  There’s a nice staircase going up.  There’s a couch and living room.  “John likes to toss his keys on the counter,” Lafayette reveals.  “Makes a casual mess where he goes.”  Despite the mansion being absurdly neat, John can’t find it in him to feel ashamed in front of Lafayette’s parents.  They just smile.  Nod their heads.  Listen. 

Lafayette takes out his phone.  He shows everyone photos.  There’s John and Alex before the hospital, but after sobriety.  They were wrestling on the floor.  Caught unawares when Lafayette decided to take the photo.  John had just managed to get Alex in a headlock and they were both looking up.  Flushed and panting, but smiling at the camera. 

Aaron and Madison even had pictures too.  Subtle ones.  They weren’t looking toward the phone, but Lafayette had taken the time to take them.  It...meant something, didn’t it?  John can’t remember ever taking pictures of people with his phone.  Never thought it mattered.  

Pierre orders John a kind of tea that tastes light and sweet.  It goes down easily and does nothing to wake him up in the slightest.  But he doesn’t feel bad about taking another advil and eating the sides off of Lafayette and Pierre’s plates.  Chewing on pieces of asparagus as he sips at his water. 

“There’s much we don’t know about you,” Marie sighs at one point.  Settling Lafayette’s phone back on the table.  She must have scrolled through the entire album.  Investigating each one of the pictures he took and plotting them to memory.  

Lafayette has an opportunity to be cruel here.  He has a chance to be ruthless and awful.  He could say something terrible,  _ who’s fault is that?  _ And they’d be right where they started.  A broken mess with no idea how to function as a family.  But John’s surprised.  He manages to hold it back.  Manages to not say anything of the sort.  He nods quietly.  Takes the phone and brings it closer.  Taps his fingers along the edges.  Doesn’t slide it back into his pocket. 

“There are offices in America,” Pierre starts.  Quiet and unobtrusive.  Still managing to capture everyone’s attention.  “Physicians and patent opportunities that need to be consulted.  Decisions that could be made.   It is...possible to spend more time there.  Should we reorganize the work schedule.  Rearrange priorities.” 

He’ll be able to visit more, John realizes immediately.  And not just him.  He’s trying to make sure that Marie and Michel visit as well.  Trying to make them prove that if they’re truly going to work to gain their son’s trust and love, that they put the effort in. 

“That should be possible,” Michel agrees.  His accent is thick and heavy in English.  But he nods his head.  Looks terribly hopeful as he consults Marie.  She matches his expression.  Hesitation obvious, but the clear  _ want  _ is hard to deny.  Lafayette has every chance to deny it.  To tell them that he doesn’t want them there.  That they made their choices and their choices ended with the break that is their relationship. 

Instead, he just nods.  Slowly.  “I do not like surprises,” he tells them.  First in English, then in French.  “I don’t like being kept in the dark.  Being lied to.  Not being told about something when the people I love are involved.”  Pierre murmurs the translation needlessly.  John suspects that both Marie and Michel understand Lafayette’s point clearly enough. 

But they continue like this.  Making it clear that there is no misunderstanding to be had.  Lafayette wants his family to treat him as if he is a part of their family.  As if the illness of someone he cares about should be relevant to him.  “I am old enough to know these things.”   

“Yes,” Michel agrees quietly.  “You are.” 

Pierre makes no excuses for keeping Lafayette in the dark.  He likely never will.  He watches the three of them with pursed lips.  Moving food around his plate without offering another word on the subject. 

It feels strange.  To sit on the outskirts of their family dilemma.  Having never been a part of it from the beginning.  Watching as the pieces struggle to slide into place as if they belong.  Lafayette is uncomfortable.  Marie and Michel are apologetic.  But none of that matters, truly, in the end.  

When John was a child, he remembers sitting with his mother.  Remembers sitting at a cafe in New York.  Sharing a frozen hot chocolate as they talked about running away.  Escaping a man who terrified John more than anyone else in the world, and terrorized their family.  They talked about where they could go.  Maybe a small apartment just the two of them.  Maybe they’d find some work there and John could go grow up without being afraid. 

He remembers how they plotted their future, and how they made a list of things they wanted to do.  Their plans fell short because of material possessions.  His mother couldn’t work out how they’d manage to survive, and she wouldn’t risk his physical well being on the street, when he had a guaranteed home with his father. 

It wasn’t about the house though.  It wasn’t about the money or the apartment or the cafe.  It wasn’t about any of the material possessions that John knew his mother worried about.  He’d have lived on the street, starved, and been homeless every day for the next ten years if it meant that he could have had her.  

If he could have had the family that right now, Lafayette was just on the cusp of working out.  It feels like a different arrangement.  Mimicking the flow and candor of his and his mother’s discussion, but...approaching a vastly different result.  Where his mother wanted a house, Lafayette’s family is discussing each other. 

When can they see each other, how can they see each other, how can they make it right?  Put the pieces side by side?  It’s a different circumstance, but John struggles to deny it in its entirety.  Pierre has his tea refilled.  Tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear.  Offers him a coat—is he cold? 

Michel and Marie start thinking about ways to visit.  Planning for a future they’re willing to fight for.  Set the mistakes to the side.  Make it right.  Make it work. 

Somewhere, John’s father—Henry Laurens—is sitting at a chair.  Perhaps watching a fire crackle with a glass of bourbon in his hand.  There’s a settlement agreement than John will not sign.  There’s money on the table that John’s entitled to.  Money that was his by birth.  Money that could pay for that home that his mother wanted.  He had an agreement and he had a mission and he’d done it all because he’d wanted to take away from what John was owed. 

There’d been no family.  There’d never been any talk of family or forgiveness.  Care of love or tenderness.  Nothing that was so blatantly obvious here.  In a strange way, John can see it clearly.  When it came to matters of consent, his father had never wanted him.  Never wanted a gay brown skin boy who never looked nor sounded like him.  Who spoke a foreign language and who was too attached to his mother. 

In matters of consent, and parenthood, Henry Laurens said ‘no’ to him.  And if that’s the case? Then there’s no point in pushing it any further.  He’d rather have a father who loved him.  Who wanted him.  Who cared.  Than to keep hoping that a man who rejected him every day he was alive, would suddenly find it within his heart to love him back. 

John takes a deep breath.  Lets it go.  His father didn’t negotiate for him.  Didn’t want the family that John’s looking for.  But Pierre?  Marie and Michel?  They were trying.  And if they were trying for him?  For Lafayette?  Then they were worth more than Henry would ever be. 

It hasn’t been that long since John them. And yet...both of them took space in his heart and existed in every iteration of the future he saw for himself.  Everytime he closed his eyes and imagined what life was going to look like.  He saw himself sober.  Sober and happy and doing well.  With Lafayette at his side.  Pierre asking how he was.  Alex and Madison and Burr.

Even, now, hopefully, with Marie and Michel stopping by to spend time with their son.  To fill that final void.  Every single one of them quickly becoming the only family he thinks he’ll ever want.  And if they’re willing to fight for him, he will always be willing to fight for them too.

No matter what.  


	14. Chapter 14

John calls Pierre _dad,_ and Lafayette doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man look more touched in all of his life.  It’s like Ben Franklin with the key and a kite.   _“You see it, right?”_ he asks his parents as they unobtrusively observe the pair.

When the sun rises on their third day in France, John’s already downstairs with Pierre.  Fencing.   _Carefully._  His right arm is bound to his chest.  His left is holding a light practice sabre.  Pierre coaches him through his steps and never once lets John do something that’s going to over-exert himself.

They stop and rest, and Lafayette checks on John.  Makes sure he’s okay.  He really needn’t bother.  Pierre had everything well in hand.  John was good.  Was always going to be good.  And would continue to do so.

Leaving them alone, Lafayette found that his parents actually attempted to take time off work.  They were home, and they stayed home long enough to interact with him on more than just a perfunctory level.

 _“I made John this,”_ Lafayette tells Maman as they work with each other in the kitchen.  Pulling the duck from the oven and setting it out for dinner.  The times that his mother cooks are few and far between.  Often she lets people assume she cannot cook at all.  But she’s capable of creating this.  And it’s one of the few times that they actually spent time together when he was young.  Going over this meal and how to make it even better.

_“Did he like it?”_

_“We had sex.”_ She snorts.  Rolls her eyes.  There’s a kind of playfulness in how she responds to him.  Between them, Lafayette’s always found it easier to talk to his mother than his father.  Let her keep a more familial name where he’d been stringent on treating his father like a stranger.

He’d like to say there was a reason for it.  Some clear difference between their style.  But truthfully, he thinks it might just be the fact she’d had so little competition in that regard.  Where his father could never amount to the presence his godfather had provided, Lafayette had only ever had one mother in his life.  Speaking with her has always...been simpler.

Strange as it may seem.

 _“I tried teaching Pierre how to make it once.”_  Something that clearly never took hold.  For all his talents, and however hard he tried, Pierre’s never been able to conjure anything in the kitchen.  

Still.  One thing he’s never denied Pierre of is his ability to eat anything.  No matter how disastrous his culinary attempts had been, he’d always eaten everything he ever made.  Even if it gave him food poisoning afterward.

 _"Why did you take him in?"_ Lafayette asks.  It's a thought that's been circulating for a while now.  Mixed in with the guilt and the uncertainty and the despair.  The trouble with being overwhelmed, was that once something starts to feel less suffocating, another thought slides into place.  Then another and another.  Managing each emotion, biting back on each tirade, felt like a lesson in futility.

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Lafayette's felt the shift.  Felt everything start pushing forward in a direction that he thinks is positive. Good.  But it only opens up space for more questions.  More pain.   _"Pierre?"_ his mother asks softly.  She's got the glaze ready to paint on, and Lafayette watches as she readies herself for the process.

Physician's focus intent on their duck.  

He hums his response.  Knowing she knew who he meant, but was stalling for time.  Pierre was right, after all.  He did take after his parents.  It's...a little disquieting that he didn't see it before.  Didn't _want_ to see it before.  Playing with one of the kitchen knives, he wonders idly if he should practice flicking it along his knuckles.  He wonders how long it would take to learn the trick.

 _"It was funny,"_ Maman says.  She keeps her voice down.  Her head still angled away.  Twenty-two years of life, and he thinks that might be the first time she's answered a question about Pierre truthfully.   _"It seemed...ridiculous? That he'd try to steal from us?  It's not as if we needed the money to replace it and...he was sweet.  Nice.  We liked talking to him.  I suppose we felt bad."_

_"Felt bad?"_

_"He was hungry, and on drugs.  We didn't have a problem with the latter, and the former we could resolve."_  Something must have shown on his face because his mother actually huffed.  Rolled her eyes in a supremely disinterested fashion.   _"You try making it through two PhD courses sober."_

He wasn't sure what was more alarming, the fact that his mother was casually advocating for drug use, or the fact he still found it surprising. _"There is a difference between recreational use and addiction, Gilbert.  A difference between having fun, and being incapable of getting out of bed in the morning unless you use something to push you forward.  Neither makes you a bad person, although some may see it that way."_

She's thought a lot about it.  He even tells her as much.  Returning her gaze to the duck, Lafayette watches as his mother's face pinches.  Perhaps the bird's not quite to her liking.  Though he doubts, strongly, that that's the case.

Somewhere, he can hear John laughing at something.  Can hear his father attempting to teach him how to say something in French.  Can hear Pierre translating back and forth.  As if playing a game to see who manages it better.   _"He was our friend, you know."_

Maman finishes dressing the duck.  Places it back in the oven to finish heating the rest of the way.  It'll be done soon.  Just needs time to get the glaze nice and warm.  Wiping her hands off on a towel, she motions for Lafayette to follow her.  It doesn't take long.  She has a study not far off the kitchen.  He remembers hearing his father tease her about wanting snacks whenever she felt like them.

She never argued.  She loves sweets.

Walking around to her desk, she opens one of the drawers.  Pulls out a large tome and slides it across the hardwood for Lafayette to see.  He opens it and stares.  There are photos.  Photos and pressed pieces of paper in protective sleeves taped onto laminate.  He recognizes some of the papers.  Notes from teachers and school.  Things he'd given Pierre when he'd come home and his parents weren’t around to see them.

They weren't every little thing, but it was enough.  Report cards and certificates.  And mixed into it all were other pages.  It takes him a moment to furrow out the meaning on some forms.  But eventually he can get the gist of it.  Pierre's T-cell count.  His viral load.  Photos offsetting them on opposite pages.  Often pictures with Pierre and Lafayette together.  Sometimes just Pierre or Lafayette by themselves.

It's jarring.  A strange collage folded down into a book.  Childhood and adulthood mixing together.  Photocopies of Pierre's education certificates.  His doctorates.  Those mixed in bizarrely with school art projects and one of the first examples of Lafayette's handwriting.  There's a picture of Pierre in his thirties, and opposite that—he's a child.  Maybe just a little younger than John is now.

Lafayette's not sure if Pierre even knew he was getting photographed.  He's leaning over a lighter, trying to get a cigarette lit.  Face slick with sweat, long hair pulled back.   He's more thin than Lafayette ever remembers him being.  Christ.  He really does look just like John.   _"We'd just found out,"_ Maman tells him.   _"It's the first picture of him we took."_

_"In case he died?"_

_"It wasn't as well treated back then.  For many years...we thought it was all the time we had.  Things have been easier.  Recently?  These past few years has seen more and more advancements.  That baby—"_ She cuts herself off.  Takes a shuddering breath.

 _"The one that was cured?"_ Lafayette asks.  He remembers hearing about it in the news.  No name for the infant, just "Mississippi Child".  It was a victory.  Everyone had been talking about it for weeks.  

But his mother's shaking her head.   _"She wasn't cured.  They've detected it again."_  Something cold settled in around Lafayette's heart.  His fingers tighten on the book.  Ledger.  Whatever it is.   _"For a few years...we'd hoped...maybe there would be an end to it.  Maybe we will see a cure.  A real cure.  But...it wasn't meant to be, was it?"_

Sighing, Maman turns from him.  Stares at the window while struggling to get her thoughts in order.  Lafayette flips the pages of the collage.  More and more images of him are appearing.  Sometimes even emails sent with updates.  But there's something more.  A piece of paper that has his name on it.  Same format as Pierre's.  His stomach clenches.   _"He told me you didn’t know if I—"_ He's not sure how to finish that sentence.

 _"I wanted that little girl to be cured,"_ his mother replies.  She still isn't looking at him.   _"I wanted her to be cured more than anything in this world."_  He stares at the numbers.  The results.

Thinks of what he did with John.  The endless stupid things he did with John that were dangerous.  Courting one problem after another.  He wonders if they'd have kept his results in this book too.  The ones stating he was positive.  He wonders how many pictures he would have filled in the pages in order to record what they imagined would mark the last few years of his life.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ he says.

 _"You have_ nothing _to be sorry about."_  She tells him firmly.   _"Excusing our behavior is not your responsibility.  And we_ should _have been here more.  Your father and I...became more caught up in trying to fight a disease that may never get defeated than spending time with you. And—"_

 _"—That's not what I'm sorry about."_ He doesn't mean for it to sound as sharp as it did, but her mouth snaps shut.  A bell goes off.  Dinner's ready.   _"I'm sorry for taking unnecessary risks."_

Until the day he dies, he will never live down what Pierre had told him all those months ago.  His mother laughs at him.  Laughs hard enough that tears come to her eyes and she kisses his cheeks before drawing him into an embrace he never expected to return.  He did.  She smells nice.  Some kind of vanilla tinged perfume that wraps around his nostrils and sinks deep into his lungs.   _"Oh sweetheart, of course you did.  You're our son."_

History repeats itself.

And he knows better than to fight it now.

***

His parents take more time off of work.  If only to prove that they can.  They redirect calls and they answer emails in the evening, but they remain on the ground.  Remain at the house and with John and Lafayette, regardless of any business ventures they intended to pursue.  Pierre mentions their brief discussion of going to Puy du Fou, and they immediately schedule the trip.  Get a car to drive.  Start organizing every detail possible.

"They're...very...type A?" John asks curiously as a fully itinerary is placed before them.  Stops that they should go to.  Sights they should see.  Driving through Paris on purpose if only so John can get the tourist experience he missed the first time.   _You'd like that dear, won't you?_

Lafayette's vaguely concerned that they've gotten in over their heads.  "There will be no stopping them this time," he quotes quietly.  Leaning his head toward John and sliding his hand in his.  His boyfriend smiles.  Eyes twinkling brightly as they're shuffled into a car.

The excitement in the car actually rises as they get close to _Puy du Fou_.  John's all but bouncing in his seat.  He looks out the window.  Licking his lips as he leans closer to the glass.  "So it's a theme park?" John asks again.

"It's...historical re-enactments," Lafayette offers.  His boyfriend's nose scrunches in displeasure.

 _"Theatrical_ historical re-enactments," Pere adds.  "With pyrotechnics and geysers in the lake.  Fireworks and sound systems."

"It's an _experience,"_ Lafayette tacks on as dramatically as possible.  If only to see John roll his eyes and grin.  Shift about impatiently once again.  Pere had given him a ball to hold.  Not too small.  Not to large.  It's soft and squishy.  But with enough tension to provide resistance.

Holding it in his right hand, John can practice squeezing it.  Practice getting his fingers used to gripping something.  Keeping his muscles working and testing his nerve's reaction to it.  There are sparks of pain.  Lafayette can see them when they happen.  Watch as spasms slip down John's arm and make his fingers twitch.  Releasing the ball as his grip fails.

More often than not, he'll switch hands.  Catching it before it falls.  Though if he misses, Lafayette will pick it up.  Toss it back.  Give him a playful kiss just to see him squirm. _Don't think about it.  It's all right._ The sling will come off soon, and the scar's healing well.  His strength _is_ improving, even if it doesn't seem like it.

Though it's hard.

A car drives by, and John snorts.  Kicks his foot.  "Red car," he mutters. Watching as John knocks his arm getting out of the car, and the immediate tremors that race through his limb.  "You all right?" Lafayette asks.  Trailing a hand up John's back.  Resting it on his good shoulder.

"Fine."  The ball is squeezed in his left hand.  His smile is lip line thin.  Tapping his waist, Lafayette nudges him forward.

"We'll be staying in 'Le Salon de Musique'," Maman announces as she pulls her purse from the car and throws the strap over her shoulder.  Pierre takes up a good deal of the bags, Lafayette snatching John's before he can even think about trying to manage it with his shoulder.  The last thing John needs is to aggravate his shoulder more than it already is.

Scowling, John threatens to throw his ball at Lafayette's face.  Mimes it vividly as Lafayette winks.  "What's _La...salon de musique?_ " John asks once he's done being a child.  Sounding out the words slowly to make sure they're right.  Maman has a tendency to speed through her French when she tries to use it with her English.  Not slowing down as much as she should.

Pierre closes the trunk and steps in.  Nudging them both forward saying, "It's an 18th century style room.  Very nice actually.  You'll like it.  It has all the amenities."

Not one to be left out, Pere nods quickly.  "There are other hotels, if you prefer?"

They always stay in this one though.  When Lafayette had tried to get a job here, he'd stayed in all of the other options.  The tents, the roman recreation, the dark wood trimmed establishments.   _La salon de musique_ just seemed like the most fun.  With its intricate bookshelves and faux instruments.  Desks and nicely furnished rooms, it was hard to not find joy in the suites.

John doesn't care one way or another, and has never seen this place to begin with.  Besides, if he likes the idea of something—it's merely an excuse to come back and try one of the different locations.  See if those are any more interesting.

Check in simple, and already Lafayette can hear the distant calls and announcements.  John keeps trying to peer outside to find something interesting to see.  Nearly tripping over his own feet when he sees the rooms.  Everything has been made to match the period precisely.  Sure, some things are slightly gimmicky and more form than function.  But there's detail here.

Detail that has John running his fingers over everything and staring at the room in shock.   There are two beds here.  Small and narrow.  Lafayette has every intention of pushing them together if he can.  But the wooden frame is curved around in scrolls and the carpet is a deep burgundy.  There are bookcases with antique styled ornaments.  Ink wells and dark blue walls.  He spins a large globe with his right hand.  Still twitching fingers sliding effortlessly around the sphere.

Maps hang on the wall and there's a kind of planetarium above them.  In their parents' suite, there's even a piano.  Regrettably just a prop.  But there's a fake cello that leans against a wall too.  Leather chairs that are neatly turned inwards.  Homey and inviting.  Another bedroom reveals a king sized bed.  Cream colored walls and a similar décor to their chateau.  Same accents along the window sill.  A bird cage settled near the side.

John's dumbfounded by it all.  "Wait until you see the restaurant," Lafayette tells him brightly.

With their parents sharing looks amongst themselves, it doesn't take long for Pierre to hand them their passes.  Waving them off.  "Go have fun," said with an almost teasing lilt.  Not that it matters.  Lafayette doesn't even need to drag John.  They're both hurrying out the door and down the stairs.

They have only so many hours in the day, and Lafayette's determined to see everything that he can.  He wants to show John the collesseum.  The apiary.  The falcons.  "There are over seven hundred birds of prey," he tells John quickly.  "And they will show you how to hunt with them."

There are horse shows.  Jousting.  They can sit in the stands and watch knights ride haphazard toward each other.  Striking wooden shields with sturdy lances.  "How do they not get hurt?" John asks in wonder.  It's something that Lafayette wanted to know for years.  He used to buy books on the park.  Used to try to read up on their talents and skills.

He never even got past the interview stage when he'd tried to get a summer job.  Apparently, however they did what they did, _he_ was not qualified.  "I have...never found out," he admits grudgingly.

"Hercules had a particular fondness toward the coliseum," Lafayette recalls.  Leading John inside.  It takes time to walk from place to place.  Even longer as they stop and watch some of the smaller performers walking about.  Pausing to see the gondolas in the water.  The shops on the side of the road.

Each part of the park is a performance.  The stores are filled with 'novelty' items that each shop keep treats as real.  For once, John doesn't even question the price.  Just looks at things he likes, wants, and lets Lafayette buy them for him.  They share frothy drinks and apples delivered by beautiful busty barmaids.  Teasing and play fighting with each other while stumbling breathlessly into the coliseum doors.

Finding their seats takes time.  There are levels to the building, and John keeps looking about.  Staring openly at the wide arches and the sculpted platforms.  But the next show is starting soon and Lafayette nudges him.  Hurries him to keep up.  To join him.

They slide onto the bench.  It's simple enough to run his hand along John's arm until he lets him take it.  No one will comment on their closeness here, and it only adds to the excitement.  Their seats are nice.  They have an excellent view of the great wooden door that lets the athletes onto the field.

It opens slowly, and a microphone echoes the 'emperor's' edicts caross the field.  Lafayette leans down to translate.  "He is welcoming us to the colisee, calling for the sport to start..." the doors open and the first act begins.  Horses trotting proudly onto the sand.  Great colorful banners flickering off them.

John licks his lips.  Rubs at his arm with his free hand.  "Do you need an advil?"

"No-no I'm fine." Lafayette nods.  No need to push it.

The horses race.  Charioteers scream and yell.  There are sword fights.  Athlete's diving over from one part of the field to the other.  The emperor egging them on the whole time.  John's enraptured.  Beautiful eyes staring with open wonderment.  Fingers squeezing Lafayette's palm as best he can.  Twitching, occasionally here or there.

When the lions come out, Lafayette can feel John's tension grow.  He's on the edge of his seat.  Squeezing harder than he ever did on the ball that's sitting in his pocket.  "They're not really going to fight the lion are they?" John asks breathlessly.  "That lion's not—they won't hurt him right?"

"The lion?"  Lafayette clarifies, just to be sure.

"Yeah, yeah, the lion.  He won't get hurt?"

"No.  No it seems very foolish to strike or anger an animal that will kill you if provoked non?  He is very happy.  Look you see?"  The lion is roaring.  Climbing up on top of the cage an actor is in and laying down on top of it.  Seemingly unconcerned with any of the riff-raff.  "It is not like a true gladiator ring.  They won't hurt the lions.  We're not...eh... _that_ exact. Okay?" He rubs his thumb along the back of John's knuckles.  Soothing him as the show goes on.

Gladiators rush to do 'battle' with one another and their fearsome conquests.  Actors and animals rush from one end of the pitch to the other.  Stories told with increasing passion. John's not an silent spectator either.  He asks questions.  He points and he pulls at Lafayette's hand.  Explain this, explain that.

He is...for the first time in weeks...seemingly relaxed.  And through it all, his fingers stay warm around Lafayette's palm.  A twinge here or there.  But constant.

Steady.

 _He's going to be all right,_ Lafayette thinks as the show comes to a close.

 _We're_ _going to be all right._

***

John falls asleep in an English tavern where the mugs are printed from the Viking era and the sounds of the French Revolution are echoing in their ears.  They've amassed a treasure trove of souvenirs for their trip home, and Lafayette was vindicated on more than one occasion.   _I can see why you wanted to live here,_ whispered over and over.  Lafayette's tempted to buy John a falcon of his own, if only because he'd loved watching the bird show so much.

They met with their parents for their evening meal.  Shared stories and exchanged plans for tomorrow.  Maman and Pere listening with rapt attention as John rambled through tale after tale.  They must have lost him at some point, but they never showed their disinterest.  And...perhaps even more shockingly, they give _him_ the same courtesy.  Nodding when Lafayette gave examples.  Asking questions.  Encouraging him to go on.

When John's head touches his shoulder, exhaustion finally winning out, Lafayette's ready to take him upstairs.  Put him to bed.  Let him relax and not stress his body too much longer.  Pierre takes him though.  Standing easily and stealing their room key.  Gently corralling John toward the door.  Murmuring softly in Spanish the whole while.

 _"It's not about the park, is it?"_ Lafayette asks as they depart.

 _"It's somewhat about the park,"_ his father replies.  They've done well, Lafayette thinks.  To try to make this work.  To give him time.  To not push.  They've done well.  Still.  A level of impatience is what it is.

And...they're not wrong.  It is somewhat about the park.  He likes this park. He likes everything about it.  From how fanciful it can be.  Fake guns firing at night.  Glistening tales of magic.  It represents a world as it's imagined in its ideal.  Not necessarily true in any sense of anything, but still an effort.  An attempt.

You can't change the past.

But you can reinvent it.  You can give it new meaning.  And you can try to bring the past into the future, and this time...make it right.  No lions die in the colisee.  No blood is spilt on the battlegrounds.  The fights are just small things.  Where everyone can go home at the end of the day.

 _"We would like a relationship with our son,"_ Pere tells him calmly.  There's a reason Pierre left.  If this was going to turn into a fight, then it was going to be them doing it.  No need for him to try to smooth waters that will never settle.  No need for anything at all.

Lafayette's wanted his parents to be there for him since he was old enough to realize that he wasn't normal.  That this wasn’t normal.  That Marie Antoinette's childhood taunts held more weight than gold.  He's wanted to hear them say this.  So he can agree.  Take them up on it.  Relish in the security he's long wanted them to provide.   _"You'll leave,"_ he says instead.

Neither look surprised.   _"You're an adult,"_ Pere bargains.   _"An adult who...who does not live in our household any longer.  Who does not wait for us to come home or fall asleep in the foyer in hopes we'll bring you to bed."_  That was a long time ago.  And even for _him,_ it had been too sad seeing Pierre look heartbroken whenever he turned him away.  Begged him just a little longer.  His parents promised they'd be home soon.

They promised.

 _"We...cannot be that role for you,"_ Pere continues.  Nervously.  As if admitting that Lafayette had grown up without them is causing him physical pain.   _"But...we would like...to be friends?"_

Friends.  What would friends even look like, Lafayette wonders.  Phone calls home?  He does that already.  Perhaps...slightly more lengthy conversations than they've had in the past.  Less – I am alive – and more...here's my day?  How was yours?  They'd see each other more often.  Perhaps share...interests?

He doesn't really know what his parents do for fun.  Besides his godfather.  How does one even become friends with another human being?  Hercules ended up in his life because of his parents.  John...John sort of skipped that step.  And following the path to John's place in his life would be awkward in the best case, and horrifying in the worst.

But Alex.  Alex and Madison and Burr.  They were his friends weren't they?  Not simply tag-alongs that appeared one day?  He was still honestly concerned for Madison's health after the fight.  Still worried about Alex.  Still asked after Aaron.  He looked forward to skype calls with them.  Wanted to continue.

Friendship seems like such an unusual concept for them.  Can parents even _be_ friends with their children?  Is there an unwritten code somewhere in the cosmos that says there must always be a separation between familial unity and fraternal merriment?  The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, but what if the womb and the covenant join in one?  What happens when you break that barrier?

He tries to imagine it.  Tries to imagine calling his parents to tell them about his day.  Every day.  Tries to imagine spending time with them.  Fencing?  Maybe?  Shopping, certainly.  Perhaps they visit Puy du Fou on multiple occasions.  Perhaps they go elsewhere.  They could visit one another.

They could travel together.

They could attend his graduation.  Send no surrogates.  Be there in person.  Assist him with their knowledge of medicine when it comes time for him to decide upon his degree.  Psychiatry or Psychology?  Counseling? Which graduate program should he go to?  Is it worth it?

The questions mount.  His concern rises.  He licks his lips and he stares from one parent to another.  Running out of time.  He needs to make a decision.  They're looking at him.  Eyes wide and hopeful.  And it's his father.  His mother waiting for him on the other side of that table.  Cross it and agree.  Tell them he wants to be their friend.  Or run away.  Close the door.  Don't join them on the other side.

Keep the separation that by now is all too easy to continue.  Pierre is John's.  John is Pierre's.  They won't lose each other in this exchange.  The only blood left to be spilt is their own, and their own has been spent so many times before that it should hardly matter if more falls now.

He's running out of time.

The restaurant is alive with life.  Glasses clink and patrons laugh.  Children scream and are merry.  His mother shifts closer to his father.  She takes his hand.  Bracing for the refutation they can see so clearly on his face.  They've squandered this chance.   They've stayed away too long, and he is his own person.

He doesn't need his parents any longer.

_Oh._

Pere's right after all.

His father's shoulders slump.

Time's up.

Slowly, Lafayette lifts his palm from his lap.  He turns it.  Holds it in the space between their bodies.  He doesn't like being in this position.  Doesn't like knowing if he's making the right call or not.  He hopes he is.  He hopes when he goes upstairs and tells John what happened, John will give a nod of approval.  Will tell him that he did good.

But...with each passing second the words solidify into reality in front of him, and he knows.  He knows this is right.   _"My name is Gilbert du Motier Lafayette...my friends call me Lafayette."_  His father's eyes widen.  His mother's lips press thin.  There's hurt there.  Hurt, but acceptance.

Acceptance that things are different now.  Things will _be_ different now.  Equals.  Friends are equals.  Slowly, his father reaches up.  He takes his hand.   _"Michel du Motier Lafayette...you can..."_ his breath hitches.   _"My...my friends call me—"_

 _"—you can call me Gilbert.  Papa."_  The hand around his palm squeezes brutally tight.  He's jerked forward.  Across the table.  Across the expanse.  His legs hit  the edge.  Cups jump and silverware clinks.  Lafayette _knows_ they're being watched.  But he cannot bring himself to care.

Cannot bring himself to take note.  He closes his eyes.  An arm wraps around his shoulders and squeezes him tight.  His head presses against his father's.  Warmth and heat flood through him.   _"I love you, son.  I do love you.  I have always loved you."_

And one last time, they start again.


	15. Chapter 15

In the end, leaving France is bitter sweet.  Marie and Michel need to return to work.  They can’t continue taking so much time off, and Pierre quietly admits that he’s been keeping Henry Laurens’ lawyers at bay for as long as he can.  They want to discuss settlement.  They’d like to have this done with sooner rather than later.  Especially since Pierre’s removed all the good will he’d originally intended to give Henry’s estate.  After the fiasco in the car—he’s lucky he’s getting that much.

Marie and Michel both hug John.  Tell him he’s more than welcome any time.  Eyes wet and leaking.  Grateful?  Maybe?  John doesn’t know.  But, Lafayette embraces his parents.  Even promises he’ll call them more frequently and agree that they should come and visit them in the States.  They’ll make the house nice.  Have them over.  Just tell Lafayette when...and he and John will make it work.

Somehow, that goodbye didn’t feel so bad.  Didn’t feel permanent.  It merely felt like.. _see you later.  We’ll see you soon._  On the plane, John fidgets and grumbles.  He plays with skittles.  Upending a bag on his tray and slowly picking them up with his right hand.  Putting them in a cup.  One by one. Reading a book Michel had given him while they were still at Puy du Fou.

It’s on on HIV and AIDS, and while most of it’s written in French, but there are a few legible asides in the margins.  John’s been practicing his language skills trying to understand.  Trying to learn.   “I don’t...I don’t think any less of you,” he told Pierre when they had a moment at the hotel.  Lafayette spending time with his parents.  Leaving them alone.  “I never would have...even if I’d known.”

“You know…” Pierre started, glancing over the book’s cover.  “Even now...there is such ignorance about what HIV even is.  I mean the fact that someone,” Lafayette, “could say, ‘You have AIDS.’”  His expression pinched.  His lips pressed thin.  “And there is a part...a part of me that would like to say to them.  ‘No. I have HIV. Do you know the difference?’ but the fear and the stigma still exist.  I have had friends who have died from this.  I have seen families torn apart.  Loved ones who have become positive, because it is so easy to lie.  To lie and say ‘I’m negative’ and then have unprotected sex.  And for every time I tell the truth, how many others have lied before me?  And if I do say the truth...when is it to someone who is not as caring or as kind as you?

“I don’t care what you do with your life, _mijo_.  Stay with Gil, leave Gil.  It doesn’t make any difference at all.  But please, promise me you’ll be safe.  That’s all I ask of you.”

It doesn’t seem like much in the end.

John flips through the book on the plane.  He sounds out the words and translates them as best he can.  Asks Pierre or Lafayette to help him with the rest.  Lafayette reading it page for page with him.  Learning together.  What’s the difference.  The real difference, not the 9th grade health class that doesn’t explain anything as well as it should.  

How to be safe.  

How to continue to be safe.

And how to do better.

Sometimes, John’s found, mistakes change you irrevocably.  But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t ways to make due with the hand you’re dealt.  That doesn’t mean they can’t move on.  Pierre takes certain medicines to make sure he’s healthy.  John picks up skittles and drops them in cups.  And he knows that if asked again, he will tell them ‘no.’  He’s not taking any more opiates.  No matter how fierce the pain.

Pain is temporary.  And they’re going to survive this.

***

They get off the plane, and Alexander Hamilton clings to john like a Puerto-Rican koala Throwing his arms around him as if John was about to leave on another flight and not take him too. John clings right back.  Burrowing his face in Alex’s neck and breathing him in. Whispering, “I’ve missed you,” against Alex’s ear.

“Motion for you to take me next time,” Alex declares.

“Seconded.”

Lafayette slips in behind Alex and hoists him up.  Makes him squeal as Lafayette announces,  “Motion passes.”

“Burr’s with the car,” Alex admits as Lafayette scans the crowd.  

Taking easy command Pierre motions toward the car.  “Go join them, Gil and I can get the bags.”  Nodding and waving them off, John joins his friend.  Listens as Alex rambles about everything he can think of.

How Madison’s parents found out about the hospital visit.  How they’re an overprotective nightmare and he can’t wait to get back to school.  “I’m surprised Pierre came back?” Alex adds on at the end.  Curious and eyebrows waggling.

“It’s...my father.  I...I have a meeting with him soon.”

The gleeful look fades immediately.  “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, I’m—” John thinks about Pierre.  Smiling.  Supportive.   _Mijo._ “I’m more than fine.” Walking arm and arm, they bypass the baggage claim to head toward the car.  The others can manage the luggage.  And it’s nice...having Alex tucked up under him.  Nice being back where he speaks the same language as everyone around him.  “I don’t think I ever thanked you,” he says when he knows they’re well and truly alone.

“Thanked me?”

“For...saving my life in the fight.  For saying ‘no’ for me after.  For...for not letting them...with the morphine?  For...for not pushing it with France.  For letting me go...for letting me come back.”  He squeezes Alex closer still.  “Thank you.”

“I—I wanted to.  I did.  I—” John pulls back.  Just enough to lean down and kiss Alex on the lips.  Feel his body meld against his own.  Relaxing and perfect.  

“Thank you,” he says immediately when he pulls back.  Alex stares up at him.  Cheeks flushed.  But nodding.  “You did everything just right.”

“You’re okay now?” Alex asks.  

Step by step.  Day by day.  “I’m getting better.” It’s the most honest answer he can give.  

Burr waves them over as they approach the car.  Hugs are exchanged, greetings given.  Lafayette and Pierre catch up.  The whole process takes minutes.  Time slips by.  Fast and uncoordinated.  But Lafayette holds his hand.  

Pierre smiles. “You ready to go, mijo?” And Alex’s stares.  Fingers suddenly brutally tight around John’s wrist.

“Yeah, papi,” he feels his cheeks blush.  Feels his heart beating faster.  “Let’s go.”

 _Papi?_ Alex mouths at him, looking back and forth with eyes so wide John can only imagine what filthy things he’s coming up with.  

“I...he...it’s…”

“Patronage,” Pierre offers politely.  “If you’d prefer?”  It’s not quite adoption.  But nothing’s nearly so formal in any case.  They have no paperwork.  

Patronage works.  

To be honest, he’s only slightly surprised that Alex’s response wasn’t _Can you be my patron too?_ And instead, was “I’m so happy for you.” No complaints.  No judgement.  Nothing.  Just joy.  

There’s only one thing left to do.  And then they can go home for good, and put this whole chapter of his life behind them for good.

***

The office is filled with glass.  Glass walls that tower so everyone can see what’s happening.  Desks.  Chairs.  It’s open.  It’s forty-five eyes on you.  It’s phones ringing and secretaries glaring.  “Come this way,” they’re beckoned.  They go.  Lafayette’s cuff sits tight around John’s right wrist.  His left is already in place.  The feeling of both wrists being bound is good.  Calming.  Centering.

Pierre walks in front of him.  A familiar back that John’s used to seeing.  Stare at the lines of Pierre’s suit, and he doesn’t need to think about anything else.  Doesn’t need to block out the hell and horror that exists everywhere else.  He can pretend that the people aren’t watching him.  He can pretend that his last name isn’t stamped on the wall.  He can pretend that he doesn’t feel entirely out of place here.

That he’s an outlier that everyone knows about.  That everyone talks about.  

John’s feet stumble, and Pierre hears it.  Looks back.  Waits for him.  Smiles gently.   _It’s almost over._  Then they can go home.  John can go back to Lafayette.  He can close this part of his life for good, and he doesn’t have to worry about any of it ever again.  

They’re led to a door that is notable as having the only true walls on the entire floor.  Big and wooden, they’re led into an enclosed area.  A long conference table sits in the center of the room.  Twelve lawyers and Henry Laurens sit on one side of the table.  John can hear Pierre scoff.  He turns to the side, and holds his hand out.  Making it obvious he wants John to precede him.

It takes everything John has to step forward.  His eyes locked on his father.  His leg muscles are tightly locked beneath him, and it’s a strain to step forward.  A strain to move at all.  Pierre’s hand settles behind his back.  Between his shoulder blades.  Gentle and guiding.  Encouraging.  He guides him into a seat at the center of the table, and before Pierre sits at his left, he gives John’s shoulder a squeeze.   _I’m here for you._

The door closes behind the secretary who led them here, and John licks his lips.  He doesn’t know what he’s meant to do.  His father is still staring at him.  Tight lipped and unhappy.  The lawyer to his right is a stern faced man with drooping jowls.  Lines around his face.  He’s been practicing law for a while.

John even recognizes him.  Has seen him at some of his father’s events.  Around the house when he was younger and still _lived_ at the house.  He’s just as stern and as unapproachable now as he had been when John was younger.  John can’t manage to find the will to speak.  Everything’s gone dry.  

His left leg jitters beneath the table.

“No court reporter?” Pierre asks evenly.

“This conversation will not be recorded,” Herbert Heuman, Esq. replied.  Opening his legal pad.  

“Then we’ll see you in court,” Pierre replied.  “C’mon, John.” He stands up again, and gently taps John’s arm.  John stares up at him.  Eyes wide as he scrambles.  Pushing his chair back and feet rushing to stand.  He leans too hard on his right hand when rising, and pain scales through it.  Legs almost giving out beneath him, Pierre catches his arm.  Helps steady him.  Keeps him upright.

“Wait.” Henry raises his hand.  John’s caught.  Frozen.  Pierre still supporting him.  “I want this matter settled, today, Herbert.”

Heuman leans toward John’s father.  They start murmuring toward each other.  Pierre scoffs again, and starts leading John toward the door.  Not stopping again until Heuman finally pulls from his aside and tells them they can record the conversation.  

It feels like working on a yo-yo.  Swinging one direction than the other.  Then back again.  Pierre brings John back to the table.  Settles him once more.  He sits, dizzily.  Watching as Pierre removes something from his briefcase and sets it down on the table.  He clicks a button.  “Today is Monday, August 15, 2016.  It is 10:08 AM.  My name is Pierre Isaiah David, and I am the attorney representing Plaintiff John Laurens in his civil claims against his father, Defendant Henry Laurens. This conversation will be recorded via electronic device in lieu of a court reporter,” he states slowly and clearly.  Already faint accent disappearing more as he keeps his words enunciated with precision.  “If the defendant and his counsel could state their names for the record?”

They go down the line.  There are corporate lawyers, personal lawyers, civil lawyers, criminal lawyers, and estate lawyers.  All of them white, male, and glaring at John as if he were the scum of the earth.  Henry can’t seem to stop looking at John, either.  He stares at him as if John’s going to suddenly combust into flames, and John can’t help but swallow desperately in hopes that he won’t throw up.  Embarrass himself.  Ruin everything.

Heuman clears his throat, “Before we get started, I must ask...are you legally even allowed to practice law in the United States?  Our records indicate that you’re a French—”

“I have a work visa through Lafayette Polytechnic and have passed the bar exam in every continental state.  Would you like my bar roll number?” Pierre asks sweetly.

“Yes,” he replies.  Irritatingly short about it all.

“It’s PD 9283.”  Heuman has a brief aside with the man beside him and the lawyer scoots back and steps out of the room.  Clearly going to research if Pierre had been telling the truth.  “In the meantime.  The settlement agreement that I sent over to your offices is all inclusive of this and future claims brought against the defendant.  It includes the wealth of what is owed to the Plaintiff, and it is well within reasonable standards of accrued interest and damages.”

“You’re threatening a criminal case against our client,” Heuman accuses.

“We are.”

“The statutes of limitations of many of these—"

"—If you would like me to bring this matter to the police, I'd be happy to do so."  There's a pause.  "You've had four months to discuss.  The statutes of limitations are not up in all matters.  And the press, of course, would be fascinated to hear this story.  If you're no longer interested in settlement, then we are under no obligations to continue this conversation.  We'd be happy to address this matter when it's become a matter of public record.  The choice, sir, is yours.”

Pierre needs a raise, John thinks.  He needs a raise, and...and lots of good things.  Hell, he needs a vacation when this is over.  Him and Laf’s parents.  Somewhere they could spoil Pierre rotten.  It’ll mean John won’t be able to see him for a bit, but John doesn’t think he’d mind too much so long as Pierre was happy.

Pierre deserves to be happy.

The lawyers mumble amongst themselves.  Paperwork is shifted.  The packet that Henry had tried giving John in the car is set to the side, and another packet is brought up to rest beside it.  “The settlement you’re looking for...is exorbitant.”

“The settlement I’m looking for is the exact amount of money that is owed to my client.  The life insurance policy that his mother set up named John Laurens as her sole beneficiary.  Those funds were to be given to John with no third party handling of such monies.  That _your_ client deemed it necessary to manage these funds and to misappropriate use of such funds is criminal misconduct at best, and felonious fraud at worst.  Whether or not such a crime was necessary for John’s health and wellbeing, we can discuss at trial.  I've written up my demands already.  They include access to Henry’s entire list of business and personal financials for the past twenty-two years.”

Silence.

Pierre shifts.  Seems like he’s about to get up again.  Adding, “I look forward to the discovery phase of our impending trial,” while he stares Heuman down coldly.  

 _Two vacations,_ John thinks.  Pierre should have _two_ vacations.

Heuman and the others are unhappy with the direction of the meeting.  It’s obvious in how they’re squirming.  But Henry doesn’t seem too affected.  Just keeps staring at John.  It’s getting harder and harder to ignore.  To not pay attention as his father’s gaze intensifies.  

As the hair on the back of John’s neck stands at attention.  His skin ripples unpleasantly. He brings his wrists together in his lap.  Hands clasping as the cuffs collide.  Lafayette’s mingling with his own.  Leather rubbing roughly against itself.  “The settlement demands are for all of the money owed to John from the insurance policy, the money that John’s needed to bargain for school, money for all future school choices, and damages for emotional, physical, and mental distress over the past nine years.  And in exchange for dropping all claims for acts committed prior to 2016, and a non-disparagement agreement. Those were the terms I discussed with your firm last week.  Have those terms been altered?”

“No,” Henry replies.  He shakes his head, and finally looks to Pierre.  “No, they haven’t been altered.”

Reaching for one of the packets, he flips to the last page.  Signs it.  Lets Heuman sign it too, as his acting attorney.  Then, he slides it across the table to Pierre.  Who takes it.  And reads.  He doesn’t give it to John.  Doesn’t show it to him.  Doesn’t offer to let him lean over his shoulder.  Just reads.

It takes nearly twenty minutes.  Pierre reads it word for word.  He taps his fingers on the table as he absorbs the information.  And he seems entirely oblivious to the fact that everyone is staring at him.  Waiting for him to talk.  To say anything.  To give voice to whatever his inner mind was conjuring.

Henry returns to staring at John, and John responds by staring at the table. It’s wooden, but there’s a glass top on it.  Fingerprints smudge here or there.  Circles from cups having set too long.  John stares at each one.  Tries to determine what the drink was.  Coffee?  Water?  Tea?  John hunches his shoulders and he licks his lips.

His father opens his mouth, “John—”

And he flinches.  He fucking _flinches._

“Do _not_ address my client directly,” Pierre tells Henry without so much as looking up from the settlement agreement.  

“He’s my son,” Henry snaps.  Pierre’s jaw clenches.  His lips are pursed together.  

“I’m not…” John murmurs.  “I...I’m not your son after this.”

Emancipation.  Legally disowned.  It didn’t matter what it was called.  John and Henry had no other financial ties to each other.  On his FAFSA...there would be no parent financials.  Just him.  It was always going to be just him.  John had written himself out.  Pierre arranging it so there were no more ties or obligations between them.  If Henry wanted John to be in his life, then it was a discussion.  A conversation.  One John could ignore.  Could walk away from.  Could _choose_ respond to if he _wanted_ to.  There were no strings attached.  No compelling reason to stay.  Henry and John were split officially at the end of this all.

The agreement as added in with John’s settlement.  A separate piece of paper that John sometimes felt meant more than the first.  With the separation, it brought up...other things.  Other thoughts.   _John David._ John David sounds good.

Henry’s gaze is tormenting him.  Biting him down to his quick.  John shifts, uncomfortably, in his seat.  He has a dad.  He has a dad, and it’s not Henry.  It’s not the person who terrorized him as a child.  It’s not the person who beat him to hell as an adult.  It’s not the one who’s never shown him an ounce of affection.

It’s not.

Pierre finishes reading the packet.  He closes it and sets it to the side.  Toward John’s arm.  “Everything appears in order.”  John scoots the pages toward him, and looks at it.  Reads the legal language slowly.

The money that’s being offered, well more than anything John ever thought he would see in his life, includes his mother’s insurance policy with accrued interest, years of childcare costs that John had been neglected, and a tidy sum that covered years of abuse and neglect.  It’s a payout that’s unbelievable.  It’s money, that John had never thought he’d ever see.  

And...and the final page was the agreement.  The oath that Henry will not contact John unless John has agreed to commence such contact.  That instead, Henry needs to ask him via an intermediary such as his attorney.  Pierre’s name is on file.  

Pierre was right.  

Everything is there.

The settlement...and the separation of their lives.

A pen is produced, and John stares at the line.  His name already typed out and waiting for him.  He picks up the pen and slowly scrawls his signature.  Turns to the next page.  Signs the line that’s there too.  Again, and again, and again.  Then, he moves everything for Pierre to finalize.  One of the other attorneys serves as notary.  It’s over.  

Henry opens a folder.  Withdraws a pre-printed check.  He signs it.  It is set in front of John.  John’s never seen this much money in his life.  He’s...rich.  Maybe not Lafayette rich.  But he’s well off.  He’ll be set.  Able to pull through.  Able to do what he wanted without any problems or concerns.  Maybe think about helping other addicts.  Starting that blog.  Telling stories.  

And even so...he can’t bring himself to feel happy.  He just wants to go.  

Pierre accepts the check, and requests that copies of the settlement agreement are made.  “We’ll keep the originals,” he adds on as the secretary is summoned and paperwork is carried off.

John watches as the check is tucked into a folder.  Pressed into his arms.  He hugs it.  Feels awkward.  Uncertain.  Not sure what to do now.  Heuman calls an end to the meeting once the copies of the agreement have been passed around.  People are starting to stand up.  Depart.  Walk away.

Henry stays seated.  Heuman looks toward him for confirmation, but he just waves him away.  Until everyone’s filed out of the room.  Grumbling unhappily at each other.  The recorder keeps playing, but John can’t find the strength to stand.  Walk out of the room and down the hall.

It’s their first conversation without any strings attached.

Without any reason for John to listen to a word Henry has to say.  He can leave.  He can stay.  He can do whatever he wants.  No more begging for money.  No more fighting for his FAFSA to get signed.  No more involvement.  They’re done.  

John’s no one’s son anymore.  Not on paper,  at least.  “Jack...” Henry starts.  He takes a deep breath.  Signs.  Shakes his head.  John doesn’t know what to say.  Doesn’t know how to fill the silence.

There’s something, he’s certain.  Some sort of phrase or argument that needs to be made.  But he can’t quite bring himself to do any of it.  Can’t quite get it all out.  Get the words into formation so they make any kind of sense.  He stares at Henry Laurens.  And he feels nothing.

No joy, no sadness.  No pain.  Just.  Acceptance.  Understanding.  Okay.  They’re done.

“I...I never meant to hurt you,” the old man sighs.  Shakes his head again.  As if trying to let loose cobwebs wrapped around his brain.  Henry runs a hand over his expensive haircut.  There are freckles on his skin.  It’s the only trait they share.  “And I know...I know that I’ve not been the best father.  I understand that.  I...I _did_ hurt you.  And...I’m working on that, Jack.  I am.”

When John walks out these doors, no one will call him ‘Jack’ ever again.  No one will tell him that that’s who he is.  Will summon him by that name.  He’s free to be just ‘John’.  He’s free to be whoever _he_ wants to be.  

“You put me in the hospital when my step-mother asked why I didn’t live with you,” John murmurs.  “You beat me on school property in front of _witnesses,_ when my best friend told you I was gay.”

Henry closes his eyes.  Lifts a hand to rub at them.  Pinch the bridge of his nose.  He draws in breath, and it comes out slowly.  “I know I made mistakes.  But...but you’re my son—Jack.”

“You never treated me like one.”

“It was hard, it was hard.  You don’t understand the pressure, and the questions, and—”

“—it’s not supposed to be easy,” Pierre cuts in.  Fire and ice.  Livid.  Collected.   “It’s not _supposed_ to make sense.  It’s not supposed to be perfectly fine.  You were his parent.  And mistakes happen.  But that doesn’t mean that you put your hands on him.  Steal his money.  Impoverish him, and let him get raped in your guest room because you’re more worried about your reputation than _his_ well being.”

 _Don’t bring it up,_ John all but pleads as he looks at Henry. _Don’t mention her name._

He doesn’t.

Henry just looks...pained.  As if he’s not certain how things have come to this.  As if he’s not sure how things fell into place.  He looks at John, and he seems...strangely defeated.  Broken down.  Miserable.  For half a moment, John could almost pretend that his father didn’t want him to leave.  Didn’t want him to walk out that door and never come back.

But it’s over now.  The lines are drawn in the sand, and John knows full well.  There is no relationship to be had with Henry Laurens.  His father doesn’t want a relationship with him.  And John doesn’t...doesn’t want to continue living with the disappointment.  He needs to move on.  Pull off the bandaid as fast as possible.  It’s okay if it hurts.

Pain heals.

“Are you happy, now?” Henry asks.  It’s a question that grates on John’s nerves.  Happiness would have been having a home at ten years old.  Knowing he was going to have food at night.  Not being alone in an apartment where no one heard him cry.  It would have been support and not silence.  Not blame.  

But happiness _was_ a little house on the outskirts of town.  A basement filled with fencing equipment.  Edith Piaf playing on the stereo.  Curly hair in the mornings.  A chain that binds him to the one man who sacrificed more than anyone else could have offered.

Who introduced him to a French Lawyer who held out his hand and told him, _It’s okay.  You can hurt right now.  You’re going to hurt right now.  But you’re alive.  And it will get better.  I’ve been there before...and I’ll always be there for you now.  As long as you want me to be._

Happiness is his best friend respecting his decisions and not fighting him on them, even when he could.  It’s Alex hugging him and promising him that he’s going to do right by him, and then _proving_ it.  

It’s Madison and Hercules and Burr.  Smiling and encouraging.  Asking if there’s anything he needs.  Supporting him whenever he asks for help.

“Mijo?” Pierre asks softly.  Henry flinches.  His eyes widen.  Stares between the two of them.  

And that’s it.  That’s enough.  John finds the strength to smile.  “Yeah,” he says softly.  Standing.  “I’m happy.”

Phones keep ringing, secretaries keep staring.  There’s gossip all around.  But John walks to the elevator.  He stands there and he waits to go down.  He doesn’t think about Henry or what happened.  Instead, he thinks about Martha.

Martha Manning, who hadn’t understood him when he tried to say ‘no.’ Who had blamed him for ruining her life.  Who, at the time, had ruined his life.  Who led him upstairs and set off a series of events that he still struggled to follow.

“Do you think things happen for a reason?” John asks Pierre as the doors close.  As the elevator starts to sink down back to the ground floor.  

“How do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t have met Laf if it wasn’t for Martha,” John starts.  “Wouldn’t have gotten into drugs.  Wouldn’t have needed to get out of it.  Alex and I would probably have been dating for real by now.  I...I never would have met you.  And...and all of this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Life is built of a series of events, one right after another.  You don’t know how things have changed.  What would have occurred if you’d made one choice versus another.”

The elevator doors open.  Together, they step out.  Walk across the marble lobby.  Out onto the street.  John can’t stop ruminating over the possibilities.  And how he felt about them.  “She’s the last part of it all that’s unresolved.”

He means it, too.  Martha is the final part that has no ending.  No assistance.  No form.  She’s a shapeless being that loiters on the outskirts of his memory.  No closure.  No conscious understanding.

And yet, for some reason this feels like closure.  

Settling into the car with Pierre, John can’t help but feel as if things are finally slipping into place.  “I know more about her,” the older man admits.  Turning the key in the ignition and backing out of his parking space.  He gets onto the main road, and drives carefully.  Within the speed limit.  He’s a very safe driver.

John waits for the man to continue, but knows he won’t unless John asks for it.  “And?”

“She spent some time getting some help from a facility.  She’s out now, and is attending school in the fall.  She’s doing well.”

“How do you know?”

“Alex’s foster brother, Ned?  He can be quite the gossip.”  John has no idea how Pierre got in touch with Ned or why, but he’s starting to think the man’s a touch inhuman.  Something must show on his face, because Pierre snorts.  Rolls his eyes.  “He told Alex,” Pierre tells him.  Looking at him from the corner of his eye.  “Alex told me.”

That...makes marginally more sense.  

John snorts.  Shakes his head and looks out the window.  She’s doing well.  Good.  That’s good.  “I think I’m done,” he admits softly.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  I don’t need to know anymore.” He’s never going to see her again.  He doesn’t want to contact her.  Doesn’t want to hear her apologize, or form an apology of his own.  They both came through this with their own demons.  Their own pains.  Rising up over their own traumas and pains.

And it’s over.   _Over!_

And he’s _happy_ with that.

He smiles at Pierre.

“Let’s go home.”

And Pierre smiles back.  “Let’s.”

He backs the car out of its spot, and together, they drive home.

*End*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was interested, Pierre's last name is pronounced 'Daveed'.


End file.
